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W 'r <f>, 







































THE SINISTER MARK 


BOOKS BY LEE THAYER 


9 ? 9 

Q. E. D. 

That Affair at “The Cedars ” 

The Mystery of the Thirteenth Floor 
The Sinister Mark 
The Unlatched Door 


THE 

SINISTER MARK 

BY 

LEE THAYER 





GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1923 





























COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 


JUN i 8 *23 

©C1A704929 

'V't* | 


TO 

H. W. T. 

IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
OF HIS FINAL APPROVAL 




















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. “Mary Blake ”. i 

II. An Unstamped Letter. 12 

III. Peter Clancy.21 

IV. A Viewless Room.30 

V. Camouflage? .37 

VI. “My Sister, Anne-”.45 

VII. A Splash of Blood.49 

VIII. The Voice Over the Wire .... 58 

IX. What the Cabman Knew.71 

X. A Big Trunk.80 

XI. Four Photographs.90 

XII. A Signature Card. 101 

XIII. The Woman at the Pennsylvania Hotel 112 

XIV. One Clue.120 

vii 












CONTENTS 


viii 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XV. The Duplicate Key .129 

XVI. Rosamond Curwood .148 

XVII. Another Photograph.165 

XVIII. Rosamond’s Secret.176 

XIX. In the Old Photograph Gallery . . 184 

XX. Peter Clancy Changes His Plans— . 195 

XXI. —And Asks a Question .... 206 

XXII. “On Monday—the Twenty-ninth of 

May-”.218 

XXIII. A Midnight Errand .227 

XXIV. “Hands Up!”.237 

XXV. A High Wall.248 

XXVI. The Woman Shultze.258 

XXVII. hi West Forty-Street . . . 269 

XXVIII. Donald Morris Understands . . 281 

XXIX. Kate Rutherford Relieves Her 

Mind.288 








THE SINISTER MARK 


THE SINISTER MARK 


CHAPTER I 
“Mary Blake” 

^ I 'ELL me, Mary!” 

A The woman stirred slightly, and with her 
strong, fine hand pushed her coffee cup away. She 
hesitated and looked down at the heavily shaded 
light which threw a rosy gleam upon the white table¬ 
cloth. Then her troubled glance travelled swiftly 
about the room, scarcely noting, at the other tables, 
the eager or bored faces, dimly lit; here and there a 
splash of colour on a salient jaw and chin, a flush on 
a bare, powdered shoulder, the rest melting into 
carefully designed obscurity, in which soft-footed 
waiters passed back and forth, ubiquitous, silent, and 
attentive. Her eyes came to rest, at last, on the face 
of her companion, but her firm red lips remained 
closed. 

“Something is troubling you, Mary. I can see it 
plainly,” the man insisted. His voice was low and 
deep, thrilling with an emotion which was reflected 
in his strong bronzed face. “Tell me about it. 
Let me help you. I-” 



2 


THE SINISTER MARK 

She interrupted him with a motion of her hand. 
“It’s nothing that you can help, Donald/’ she 
said, slowly, bitterly. “‘Fate stacks the cards,’ my 
father used to say, and few of us have the courage 

to overturn the table.’ I wonder-” 

She paused. There was a strange light in her 
fathomless eyes. The man opposite her leaned in¬ 
tently forward and strove in vain to plumb their 
depths. They had fascinated him from the first— 
those strange gold-gray eyes—more than her beauti¬ 
ful, mobile face, more, even, than her wonderful 
voice. There had always been in them a veiled ex¬ 
pression of mystery, a something unexplained and 
unexplainable, a hint of tragedy which consorted 
oddly with her amazing success on the stage, 

before the most critical audience, perhaps, in the 
world. 

The fact that, in spite of her great achievements, 
in spite of her immense popularity, he alone, so far as 
he knew, had gained any degree of intimacy, thrilled 
Donald Van Loo Morris, cosmopolitan man of the 
world as he certainly was, more than, up to this 
time, he would have cared to admit even to himself. 

he long line of his stiff Dutch ancestry fought with 
the artistic temperament which he had inherited from 
a sporadic mesalliance , late in the last century, and so 
far had had the upper hand. Though he had realized 
for some time that all his senses were intrigued and all 
is mind filled with the fascination of her charm and 
the loveliness of her spirit, the thought of an alliance 



“MARY BLAKE” 


3 

with a woman, world-famed, and yet in a sense un¬ 
known, had held his ardour in check. She was called 
Mary Blake by the world at large. He had surprised 
her into admitting that this was only her stage name, 
but when he eagerly sought to push this slight 
advantage, she had withdrawn, almost visibly, into 
that realm of silence which habitually enshrouded 
her. 

That was months ago, and since then, though he 
had seen her as often as she would permit, he had 
learned nothing of her antecedents nor of her life 
preceding her first appearance on the stage. He 
was too conventional, too considerate, perhaps, to 
question openly, and though her manner was spon¬ 
taneous and direct, so far as the present was con¬ 
cerned, there was no scaling the wall of her reserve, in 
which he had been able to find not the smallest loop¬ 
hole or crevice. 

Always there had been a shadow in her eyes, and of 
late Donald Morris was sure that the shadow had 
strengthened and deepened. Always he had felt hers 
to be a sensitive, high-strung nature, overwrought. 
The demands of her profession and the emotional 
roles which she played would account for much, but 
there was a tenseness about her always, and especially 
to-night, a note almost of hysteria, which in a person 
of her vitality was scarcely explainable even by the 
strain of a long season, culminating in the closing 
triumphs of the evening. 

She had resolutely, and with fixed determination. 


4 THE SINISTER MARK 

refused the ovation which her manager had planned, 
and after the final fall of the curtain, before the last 
of the enthusiastic audience had left the theatre, she 
had slipped quietly away with him—a triumph for 
him which he felt more keenly than anything in his 
previous experience. 

The blood ran hotly in his veins as he gazed across 
the narrow table into her eyes. The tragedy and 
appeal, suddenly and completely unmasked, which 
cried out to him from their depths swept every 
worldly consideration from his heart. 

He leaned farther forward and laid his brown hand 
upon the white one which was clenched upon the 
table. 

“What is it, Mary?” he questioned, almost 
fiercely. “There’s something new—some anxiety. 
What is it, dear? You must tell me. You must let 

me protect-” He broke off suddenly and his 

voice dropped low. “I love you, Mary. I love you. 
I’d do anything in the world to serve you. You 
must-” 

Abruptly Mary Blake drew back her hand and 
rose. With the same trembling hand she drew closer 
the filmy white scarf which floated about her throat, 
and before he could reach her side, she caught up 
the light cloak which lay upon the back of her chair 
and wrapped herself from head to foot in its soft 
folds. 

“I must go,” she whispered, trembling as with 
sudden cold. “It’s late, Donald, and I’m very tired. 




“MARY BLAKE” 5 

Don’t—oh, don’t say any more to-night. I can’t 
bear-” 

They passed out through the crowded restaurant 
and automatically both faces slipped on the mask 
which must be worn before the indifferent herd. 
Many eyes followed them in their passage down the 
room. Though their faces were somewhat obscured 
by the bizarre lighting of the place, at least one of 
them had been recognized by more than a few. 

“Mary Blake,” whispered a heavy-featured man 
with a freshly scraped jowl like that of a very clean 
pig, as he leaned across to his vis-a-vis, whose bobbed 
hair shone like the evening primrose in the dusk. 
“Been to see her three times in ‘Dark Roads.’ 
Closed to-night, or I’d take you, girlie, though maybe 
you wouldn’t like it anyway. Pretty high-brow, 
even for me,” and he smoothed his slippery dark hair 
complacently. He felt, strenuously, that he knew 
what he knew. “Great artist, that,” he ruminated, 
gazing after the retreating figures. “ Poor old Quinn 
knew how to pick ’em out of the atmosphere, some¬ 
how. Pity he had to kick-in after her first season, 
but Mary Blake was a lucky girl to have him for a 
manager in the start-off. They say Fred Jones has 
made a pot of money out of ‘Dark Roads’ and, of 
course, she’s the whole show. Quinn’s training was 
worth everything to her, naturally, but the girl has 
talent, genius even-” 

The primrose one was scarcely listening. 

“Who’s the man?” she interrupted, a trifle im- 




6 


THE SINISTER MARK 

patiently. Even in her not-too-discriminating eyes 
there was a sharp contrast between the man who had 
just passed and the perfumed self-complacency who 
had done her the honour of taking her to an after¬ 
theatre supper. 

“That?” queried her companion. “Oh, that’s 
Don Morris—Donald Van Loo Morris.” He rolled 
the name on his tongue. “Real class he is, girlie, so 
don’t get any little heart flutters about him. Be¬ 
longs to all the old families in New York. His sister 
is Mrs. Francis Atterbury—see her pictures in all the 
society papers. Holds the record for being the only 
person who has ever had the honour of showing off 
the Blake in captivity. Yep! Mary gave a reading 
in Mrs. Atterbury’s house in Gramercy Park early 
last fall, and nobody else has been able to get near 
the girl with a ten-foot pole before or since. Some 
exclusive, she is! Clever little devil,” he chuckled. 
“ Knows how to enhance her popularity. Bet Quinn 
shot it into her good and strong that a successful be¬ 
ginner ought to be seen off-stage as little as possible. 
Never have seen her myself except across the foot¬ 
lights, and once in a while at some quiet restaurant, 
or a place like this which maybe isn’t any too quiet, 
but it’s sort of dim and one doesn’t attract too much 
attention, eh, girlie? Else would I be here,what?” 
and he laughed fatly. 

The girl wrinkled up her baby nose. ■ 

“Oh, quit your kiddin’,” she said, petulantly, 
“and tell me some more about the tall, good-lookin’. 


“MARY BLAKE” 


7 

guy. He's my idea of what a real gentleman ought 
to look like, he sure is. What does he do for a living, 
or don’t he do anything or anybody?” 

“Not any,” grinned the other. “At least, I be¬ 
lieve he’s a sculptor or something on the side, but he 
has oodles of money—so he should worry! Mary 
Blake’s a wise little gold-digger, all right, if she does 
pretend that Violet is her middle name. Now 
there’s nothing of the shrinking flowerette about you, 
girlie, and that’s what I could care for, believe me! 
You’re the only-” 

Unmindful of the attention they had attracted, 
Mary Blake and her escort passed out into the cool 
night air. The light rain which blew in through the 
open end of the gay awning was refreshing after the 
close atmosphere of the restaurant, and Donald 
Morris raised his head and let the rain drift in upon 
his upturned face. Mary Blake’s head was bent and 
shadowed by her broad, drooping black hat, so that 
he could not see the expression of her face when she 
said: 

“Let me go home alone, Donald, please. Just put 
me in a taxi and-” 

“Absolutely impossible, my dear girl, at this time 
of night,” he said, firmly, though his face was un¬ 
certain and anxious. 

He motioned to one in gaudy uniform who stood 
close by, and instantly, out of the darkness, a cab 
rolled up and stopped, and the gaudy one threw open 
the door. 




8 


THE SINISTER MARK 

“I won’t trouble you, Mary,” Morris whispered, 
hastily. “But I must come with you and see you 

safe. Mary, oh, Mary-” His lips closed, but 

his eyes spoke on. 

With a slight shrug and a deep intake of the breath, 
the woman bent her tall head and preceded him into 
the waiting cab. 

“Ninety-nine Waverly Place.” 

Morris gave the direction with almost the assured 
familiarity with which one gives one’s own, and yet 
the thought crossed his mind briefly, as it had many 
times before, that he had never been beyond the broad 
old door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place. . . . 
Why? . . . He had suggested it more than 
once, as plainly as he dared, but the suggestion had 
always been evaded or ignored. It was not on the 
score of propriety, of that he was certain. She lived 
with her sister. They would not have been alone. 
He had always felt that her apartment would tell 
him something of her inner life, that inner life which 
he knew now, at last, concerned him so deeply; for 
the phrase which had come unbidden to his lips was 
true. He loved her—loved her more than anything 
in the world. Nothing else mattered. 

His gaze was fixed on the beautiful profile which 
could be seen now and then as the misty street lights 
flashed past. There had been no sound within the 
cab after the slamming of the door. 

Mary Blake sat slightly forward on the cushions, 
gazing, with unseeing eyes, straight ahead. Her 



“MARY BLAKE” 


9 


small head was held erect now, but there wahome- 
thing tense in its pose, something taut in her whole 
attitude which suggested the drawn bow. Her hands 
were tightly clasped upon her knees. After a long 
time, Donald Morris spoke. 

“I won’t trouble you, Mary. I won’t ask any 
more questions, but—I meant what I said. You 
must have seen it coming. You must have known— 
oh, you beautiful, dear, wonderful girl, I love you. 
I want you to be my wife, Mary. My-” 

“No, no, Donald! Stop, oh, stop,” she gasped. 

“Don’t—don’t—not to-night-” Her breath 

came short and quick. “I’m to blame—to blame. 
I—I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know 

whether to-But no. You could never . . . 

oh, I can’t talk! Not to-night! It’s been a long 
season, and I’m tired—so tired.” 

There was no hint of fatigue in her poised figure, 
but in her voice was all the way-worn wistful weari¬ 
ness of the ages. 

The cab reached Washington Square, turned to the 
left, and stopped, and a grimy hand stretched leisurely 
back and opened the door. 

“Wait,” said Donald Morris, briefly, as he alighted 
and gave his hand to the woman who quickly followed 
him. 

Silently he received her keys, unlocked and opened 
the door of the dark vestibule and the door of the hall. 
A faint light burned inside, and by it he could just 
distinguish the white oval of her face, the wild, bitte-** 






io THE SINISTER MARK 

tragedy in the curving lips and great shadowed 

eyes. 

He closed the door and caught both her hands in 
his. 

“Let me come up with you, Mary,” he cried, “if 
only for a moment. I can’t leave you like this. 
Your sister will be waiting up for you?” 

“She—she hasn’t gone to bed yet. It isn’t 
that,” Mary replied in a shaken voice. There was 
always a strange note in her voice when she was 
forced to speak of her sister. It was there now, 
stronger than ever. Subconsciously, it registered it¬ 
self on Morris’s mind, though at the moment he paid 
no heed. He was to remember it later. 

“You’re trembling, Mary! You’re shivering as 
if you were frightened,” he cried, anxiously. “What 
is it, dear?” 

Again she shuddered, and drawing one hand away, 
covered her face. 

“It’s nothing, nothing, Donald.” She tried to 
laugh. “ Someone walking over my grave, perhaps,” 
she added, lightly. Then, under her breath, “Over 
my grave . . . I wonder. ...” She caught 

her lip between her teeth and swiftly pulled herself 
together. 

“Good-night, Donald. Thank you for all your 
kindness your—everything. And leave me now. 
If you—care—go now, at once, while I have-” 

For a flash her eyes were upon him. What he saw 
in them took his breath. With a cry he caught her 





“MARY BLAKE” 


ii 


close in his arms and held her fast. Wildly heart 
beat against heart, conquering lips pressed lips which 
yielded in passionate surrender. 

But only for a moment, though that moment 
seemed a lifetime to both. 

With shaking hand she pushed him from her, and 
without another word sped up the shadowy stair. 


CHAPTER II 
An Unstamped Letter 


Tj'OLLOWED, for Donald Morris, two sleepless 
A nights. 

The first was spent in living over again, moment 
by thrilling moment, the events and emotions of the 
previous evening. 

The days of indecision, when worldly considera¬ 
tions were weighed in the balance with his growing 
love for Mary Blake, seemed far away, and almost 
inconceivable, so overwhelming had his passion be¬ 
come. Whatever her antecedents had been, what¬ 
ever her past, he was ready now to face any future 
so long as it should be spent at her side. The trouble 
that threatened her, if trouble there was, would be 
as nothing to him, no matter what its nature, if he 
were allowed to share it. Every selfish thought was 
swept away in the great tide of emotion which 
buoyed him up and made him feel the master and 
ruler of circumstance. 

On the Sunday morning, as soon as convention 
would allow it, he had called Mary Blake on the 
telephone to beg for an immediate interview. 

She had answered him quietly but finally. She 
would not see him for the present. She made no 


AN UNSTAMPED LETTER 


13 

explanation, gave no reasons, and in the midst of his 
protestations she had quietly cut off the connection, 
leaving him hurt, anxious, and apprehensive. 

These feelings had grown upon him during the 
morning to such an extent that before noon he had de¬ 
cided to brave her displeasure and attempt an inter¬ 
view. 

The pace of the swiftly moving cab that bore 
him southward seemed all too slow, so anxious had 
he become. Gone now was the feeling of invincibil¬ 
ity of the early morning. A vague but almost un¬ 
bearable sense of uneasiness and alarm pursued him, 
try as he would to reason it away. 

When he had climbed the three flights of stairs of 
the old apartment at Waverly Place, his fears were 
not allayed by the silence that followed his repeated 
knocking. Once he had called through the door: 
“Mary, Mary!” and in the stillness that ensued he 
had an uneasy sense of a presence near him, a feeling 
that there was someone inside the apartment, listen¬ 
ing. He could never tell on what this assumption 
was based, for there had been no recognizable sound, 
and though he renewed his efforts, there had been 
no answer. 

Forced, at last, to abandon his attempt to see her, 
he left the apartment and wandered about the streets, 
in a frame of mind to which, in all his fortunate and 
successful life, he had been a stranger. 

Many times during the ensuing afternoon and 
evening he had attempted to get her apartment on 


THE SINISTER MARK 


14 

the wire. The first report was that the line was busy 
and after that, each time he called, the operator made 
the same reply—“Party doesn’t answer.”—And 
Donald Morris spent the second sleepless night of all 
his healthy years. 

It was with a haggard face that he presented 
himself at his sister’s breakfast table on the Monday 
morning. He tried to greet her with his usual affec¬ 
tionate gaiety, but Helena Atterbury was quick to 
notice the change in his appearance, though she made 
no sign. He had lived with her for years, this 
talented younger brother, and was the chief consider¬ 
ation and passion of her ambitious and worldly heart. 
Even her husband, Francis Atterbury, while tolerated 
with friendly courtesy for his wealth and position, 
had a far less important place in her affections. 

She watched Donald now with concern as he 
absently crumbled his roll, though she spoke only of 
ordinary things. 

“Madame Justice coming along all right, Don?” 
she asked, referring to a piece of allegorical statuary 
on which he was at work. “I’d like to run in to the 
studio this morning and pay my respects, if she’s 
ready to receive callers.” 

Morris glanced up from the morning paper and was 
about to reply when an overwhelmingly correct 
maid entered and silently presented to his notice an 
unstamped letter lying on a silver tray. 

“For me?” he questioned, unnecessarily, as he 
picked up the letter. 



AN UNSTAMPED LETTER 


i 5 

“Just came by messenger, sir,” replied the maid, 
in a still, small voice. “Is there an answer, sir?” 

Donald Morris tore open the envelope while the 
maid waited. He pulled out the letter and glanced at 
the signature. Then, abruptly, he rose from his seat 
and strode quickly over to the window where, with 
back turned, he swiftly perused the letter, not once 
but twice, crushing it in his hand when he had 
finished. 

With a quick gesture he turned to the maid. 

“Where’s the boy who brought this?” he asked, 
almost fiercely. “In the hall? All right. You 
needn’t wait.” And turned sharply to leave the 
room. 

“What is it, Don?” cried Helena Atterbury, rising 
quickly from the table. “Is anything the matter? 
Tell me-” 

But her brother, entirely oblivious of the fact that 
she had spoken, was already in the hall. 

She heard him questioning the messenger, heard 
the boy say, “Left at the office in the Pennsylvania 
Station yesterday, to be delivered this morning,” 
and saw the boy dismissed. 

The trouble and concern in her brother’s face was 
more than she could bear. 

“What is it, Don? What has happened?” she 
cried, coming up to him near the door. 

He turned from the hall table, his hat already in 
his hand. 

“I don’t know, Helena,” he said, confusedly. “I 



i6 


THE SINISTER MARK 


can’t make out- And it was yesterday! Oh, 

God!” He clenched his hand. “Already too late! 
But I must see—I must make sure. Forgive me, 
Helena, but I can’t wait. I must-” 

He tore open the front door and rushed down the 
broad steps, looking in every direction for a cab. 

Gramercy Park was peaceful and quiet on this 
spring morning. The sun shone on the budding trees 
and bushes of the little park, and already little chil¬ 
dren were playing and laughing with their nurses 
behind the iron railings. A few private cars stood 
waiting along the curb at different points, but not a 
cab was in sight. 

Without wasting an instant, Morris passed swiftly 
westward. As he neared Fourth Avenue, he saw an 
empty cab rolling uptown. He hailed it with a 
shout and broke into a run. 

“Ninety-nine Waverly Place,” he called, as he 
pulled open the door and leapt inside. 

“Make the best time you can,” he called 
through the glass as the cab turned. “It’ll be worth 
your while to forget the speed laws. Understand?” 

The smart Bowery boy at the wheel grinned his 
comprehension of the order. His wary eye noted the 
appearance and probable generosity of his fare, and 
the pressure of his foot on the accelerator marked, 
with sincerity, the result of his observations. 

“Fool, to hurry now,” thought Donald, leaning 
forward, however, and chafing at every delay caused 
by the traffic of the busier streets. “Too late! I 





AN UNSTAMPED LETTER 


17 

know it will be too late. . . . But there’s the 

merest chance. Thank God-” he broke off as they 

swung into University Place, and the way before 
them being comparatively clear, they sped swiftly 
southward. 

In a few minutes the cab turned the corner of 
Waverly Place and stopped before the quiet brown- 
stone front of Number Ninety-nine. It had once 
been a private residence of distinction, and even in 
its altered condition it had retained a look of re¬ 
served dignity which would have impressed any one 
less preoccupied than the man who now, dismissing 
the cabman with a handsome tip, sprang up its broad, 
worn steps. 

In his haste, Donald Morris almost fell over a 
kneeling figure just inside the half-open door. 

“Watcha da pail!” a voice protested, as its owner 
jumped to his feet and jerked a bucket of water out 
of the way. He grinned at Morris’s rapid apology, 
disclosing two rows of strong teeth, shining white in a 
ruddy and rather stupid Italian face. “Me scrubba 
da floor,” he explained the obvious. “White marb’ 
maka lotta troub\” 

Morris nodded, absently. “Miss Blake in? May 
I go up?” he asked, hurriedly. Already his foot 
was on the stair. 

“Sure,” answered the Italian, indifferently, bend¬ 
ing again to his work. “Me tinka both in, awright.” 

The reply surprised and heartened Morris, to some 
slight extent allaying his fears. The man was evi- 



i8 


THE SINISTER MARK 


dently the caretaker and might know. At any rate, 

he could see Mary’s sister, Anne, and find out- 

He swore to himself that he would find out—that he 
would spare no means and no person to get to the 
bottom of this—and with set jaw and racing feet he 
dashed up the stairs. 

He passed two landings, where gas burned dimly 
beside discreetly closed doors, and in a moment 
reached the top of the last flight. 

There was no light here save that which filtered 
through the old-fashioned coloured glass of the sky¬ 
light above the stair well, but Morris did not hesitate, 
for there was only one door to Mary Blake’s apart¬ 
ment, the same plain white door at which, yesterday, 
he had knocked so long and so fruitlessly. 

His foot had scarcely touched the landing when his 
hand shot out and grasped the small brass knocker. 
The sharp “clap, clap,” as it fell, resounded in the 
silence, and Donald waited. 

No answer. Only grave silence within and the far¬ 
away roar of the busy city without. 

He tried again, and yet again. Within, the silence 
lay unbroken. 

“No living thing beyond this door could fail to 
hear,” Morris muttered to himself. “No living— 
oh, God! What does her letter mean?” 

He drew it from his pocket and looked at it, but 
the light was too dim. He could not decipher again 
its hurriedly written pages. 

He leaned against the edge of the door and thought 




AN UNSTAMPED LETTER 19 

as he had never thought before. The words of the 
letter came back to him like fire, and he clenched his 
teeth and groaned aloud. 

“What shall I do? What can I do?” he whispered 
to himself in an agony of apprehension—and as he 
leaned forward to knock once more, his eyes, grown 
accustomed to the dimness, caught a glimmer of 
something white which lay upon the threshold of the 
door. 

He dropped to his knees and touched it. He 
felt it to be a small portion—a corner of a scarf 
of soft, filmy silk, edged with fringe, fine as thistle¬ 
down. It lay across the sill, caught by the closed 
door. He pulled at it gently, but the door held it 
fast. 

Swiftly his hand sought and found a paper of 
matches in his pocket. He lit one, and as the tiny 
flame leapt into being he held it down toward the bit 
of frail silk tissue. 

Yes, he did recognize it. It was the scarf Mary 
had worn when last he had seen her. These soft 
folds of silk had floated against his cheek when—oh, 
God!—when he had kissed her. 

Reverently he stooped to put it to his lips—and 
suddenly, with a cry, he sprang to his feet. 

With the last flicker of the match he had seen 
something which brought his heart up, pounding in 
his ears. 

Wildly he struck another match, and holding the 
end of the scarf in his left hand, he bent and brought 




20 


THE SINISTER MARK 


the wavering flame close to the place where the scarf 
was held by the door. 

Upon its pure silken folds, spreading toward him 
from under the door, was an ugly dried blot of an 
ominous, dark red. 


i 


CHAPTER III 

Peter Clancy 

PETER CLANCY, early of the Metropol¬ 
itan Police, late of the United States Secret 
Service, and currently the active head of a small but 
brilliant private detective agency, sat at his desk, 
yawning. 

Except for a few bootlegging cases, the last few 
weeks had been singularly uneventful, and on this 
bright spring morning the equally bright red head of 
the young detective was full of visions of leafy woods 
and murmuring brooks, where trout rose audaciously 
and leaped, a flash of rainbow and silver, in the 
glancing sunlight. 

“If nothing comes across to-day,” he ruminated, 
dreamily, “I’ll turn over this righteous old burg to 
O’Malley’s tender care, beat it out to Jersey, and 
have a hack at the trout with Harry Carlisle, darned 
if I won’t.” 

The pleasant thoughts engendered by this deter¬ 
mination were rudely interrupted by the sharp ring¬ 
ing of the telephone at his elbow. 

“Another lot of hooch unearthed,” he muttered to 
himself disgustedly, as he took the receiver off* the 
hook and held it to his ear. 


21 


22 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“Hello,” he cried, with an unnecessary accent on 
the first syllable. “Who wants me, Maggie? Oh, 
all right. I don’t know him, but put him on.” An 
instant’s pause, then—“Hello, yes. Peter Clancy 
speaking. Yes ? ” a rising inflection on the last word. 

Suddenly the expression of annoyance left his face. 
He listened intently. His eyes narrowed to slits of 
flashing blue, his relaxed body tautened in every fibre. 
Once or twice he shot a question into the transmitter, 
but the entire conversation over the wire could have 
been measured by seconds. 

At the end—“Ninety-nine Waverly Place? I’m 
there!” he said, and flinging the receiver upon its 
hook, he dashed into the street, picked up a passing 
taxi, and made good his word. 

The street door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place was 
ajar. Clancy, flinging it wide as he reached the 
threshold, was greeted by a fluent ejaculation in pro¬ 
fane and picturesque brogue, winding up with— 

“It’s the divil and all that’s in it at all, at all! 
Bangin’ me in the stomach with the whole side of a 
house!” 

“Hello, Sullivan! What’re you doing here?” 
cried Clancy, catching the arm of the uniformed 
policeman with a gesture which was, in itself, a hasty 

apology. “Anything to do with-” A motion of 

his head indicated the upper part of the house. 

The officer nodded, and through his suddenly as¬ 
sumed air of preternatural sagacity there appeared a 
deep perplexity. 



PETER CLANCY 


23 

“Are you on it, yourself?” he asked, though he 
anticipated the affirmative answer. “Mr. Morris 
called you up, I suppose,” he continued. “Said he 
was going to get the best man in New York, and I 
guess he has, at that,” with a complimentary grin. 
“Ye can’t down the Irish, eh, Mr. Clancy? Well, 
and what d’ye make of it?” 

“Don’t know many of the facts yet,” Clancy re¬ 
plied, hastily. “Am just going after’em. But what 
are you doing down here? Why aren’t-” 

“He requested me very polite to lave him alone 
wid it,” answered the policeman, with so conscious 
an air of virtue that Clancy could almost see the 
denomination of the large bill which he felt sure was 
in Sullivan’s pocket. “It was nothin’ agin my duty 
to lave him,” Sullivan explained, elaborately, “since 
I know Mr. Morris be sight, him not knowin’ me 
and offerin’ his card, which I had no need of at all, 
me havin’ been usher at the Opera, before I got too 
big for them little uniforms they do be havin’, and 
knowin’ the Morris box like it was me own ward. 
And I had to see the Captain when he come, didn’t 
I, and give him a hint of it before he wint upstairs?” 

“Sure. You’re all right, Sullivan,” said Clancy, 
slapping the broad blue shoulder. “Be a good 
scout, and give me a hint before I go up. But be 
quick about it, will you? I don’t want to keep Mr. 
Morris waiting. Where did he find you?” 

“Just down the block a piece. I was goin’ on me 
way, when I heard someone runnin’ like hell behind 



24 


THE SINISTER MARK 

me. ‘Officer,’ says he, ‘come wid me, quick!’ and 
he grabs me by the arm and no more he says, wid me 
racin’ beside him puffin’ to kape up, till we come to 
this door. Open it was, and up the stairs we go to¬ 
gether like the divil was chasin’ us. When we got to 
the top, ‘Look,’ says he, pointin’ down, and no 
more words at all, at all, which might have been he 
was lackin’ his breath, same as me. And I looked, 
and I couldn’t see nothin’ but somethin’ white and 
thin, like smoke, a’most, that was stickin’ out from 
under the door. You’ve heard about that?” 

Clancy assented with a quick nod. 

“Yes. He told me. So that’s how he got you? 
That’s what I wanted to know. Find out the rest 
upstairs. Thanks. See you later,” and Clancy went 
up the stairs, two steps at a time. 

Though his ascent was rapid, his foot fell quietly 
on the thick carpet. Quiet, too, was his hand on the 
knob of the door. He had often found that a sudden, 
unexpected entrance was effective in more ways than 
one. This time, however, the effect failed utterly, 
for the door was locked. 

Clancy, frowning slightly, raised and let fall the 
small brass knocker. 

He heard someone moving inside the apartment, 
and almost immediately a voice near the door asked: 

“Who’s there?” 

At Clancy’s reply, the door opened wide. 

“Mr. Clancy!” ejaculated Donald Morris, accept¬ 
ing Peter’s card with a glance of verification. “I 


PETER CLANCY 


25 

didn't think you could possibly get here so soon. It 
was good of you-” He did not finish the sen¬ 

tence, but quickly motioned the detective inside and 
closed the door. 

The narrow hall into which Clancy stepped was 
rather dark, the only light coming in from an open 
door at his right. Through this door Morris im¬ 
mediately led the way, into a large living room, 
Clancy following close at his heels. 

As Morris stepped into the light, Clancy’s quick 
eyes took in at a glance his strong features and hag¬ 
gard aspect. This was a man not easily alarmed, 
Clancy thought. It would take a good deal to upset 
his balance, and, in search of enlightenment, his glance 
travelled swiftly all about the room. 

“Everything here just as you found it?” he asked, 
quickly. 

Morris nodded. “All but this,” he said, in a heavy 
voice, motioning toward a table which stood near one 
of the windows. 

Clancy swiftly advanced and looked down intently 
at that which lay upon it. He touched it with his 
finger. 

“You found this scarf across the door-sill,” he 
said, meditatively. And leaning closer he went on, 
“Stained. . . . Yes. . . . Blood? 

Looks like it. Could hardly be anything else. 
. . . Not much of it. . . . And you found 


“There’s no one, dead or alive, in the apartment,” 




26 


THE SINISTER MARK 


Morris interrupted, hastily. He felt that he could 
not bear to hear the word which he saw forming it¬ 
self on the detective’s lips. “The officer went all 
through the place with me. It’s empty, quite empty, 
though the janitor thought both Miss Blake and her 
sister were here. And,” with a motion of his hand, 
“the place was as you see it.” 

Again Clancy looked carefully around the room. 
It was unusually large and spacious, occupying the 
entire front of the old house. Simple, good old 
furniture, well placed, gave it an air of comfort and 
elegance, though there was not an unnecessary thing 
in the room. The three large windows facing the 
south were covered by thin ecru curtains held in 
place by a small rod at top and bottom, letting in 
the light but obscuring the view of the ugly, tall 
buildings across the way. 

Standing there, in that viewless room, Clancy had 
a swift sense of the isolation of so many thousands of 
lives in this dynamic and vital city. What could not 
happen in a secluded, quiet back-water like this? 
What lives and deaths, with the teeming city sur¬ 
rounding them on every side? 

The thought crossed his mind in a flash and was 
gone. He was not concerned now with profitless 
generalities. He had been summoned here to find 
out what had happened, and exactly what had hap¬ 
pened, in this present case. 

There was not a great deal to go upon in this room; 
nothing especially out of the ordinary save the stained 


PETER CLANCY 


27 

scarf upon the table, and the fact that the several 
drawers of a desk on the far side of the room had ap¬ 
parently been ransacked, some of them being still 
open, their contents partly scattered on the floor. 
A small table at the end of a long couch which stood 
at right angles to the fireplace had been overturned, 
and on the floor beside it lay a shattered vase of blue 
hawthorne. 

Apparently nothing else was out of place, and it 
was, perhaps, not unusual in this spring weather that 
there should be a quantity of ashes in the old- 
fashioned open grate. But ashes of any kind, per¬ 
haps from early association with the stories of the 
great Sherlock Holmes, always interested Peter 
Clancy. 

He knelt to investigate and found that the ashes 
appeared to be those of burnt paper only. He stirred 
them carefully, but could not find a vestige of charred 
wood nor a single bit of paper which had escaped the 
action of the fire. 

Morris followed him silently about the room, 
asking no questions. He had the air of one dazed by 
a crushing blow. 

Satisfied, for the moment, by a more or less casual 
inspection, Clancy returned to what was to him the 
most significant object in the room. 

“This scarf,” said he, looking at it closely. “I 
think you told me you found it outside in the 
hall?” 

“Partly outside and partly in,” Morris made 




28 


THE SINISTER MARK 

answer at once. “It was caught fast by the door, 
but some of the—of the blood on it was outside.” 

“H—m—m, yes,” said Clancy, slowly. “And it 
belongs to someone who lives here, you think?” 

“It was Miss Mary Blake’s,” answered Morris, 
decidedly. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I recognized it at once,” answered Morris with 
conviction. “She wore it when—when I brought 
her home after the closing of the play.” 

“Saturday—that was Saturday night, and this is 
Monday,” Peter Clancy ruminated. “And that 
was the last you saw of her?” 

“The last I saw of her, yes. I spoke to her on the 
wire Sunday morning, rather early, about ten o’clock. 
And I—I received a letter from her this morning. 
That was why I came. I was alarmed, and-” 

“You were alarmed, then, before you came here. It 
was not only finding the scarf-” 

“No. Her letter was so—so strange and unac¬ 
countable.” Morris hesitated and, to help him out, 
Peter said: 

“But you did expect to find Miss Blake here when 
you came this morning?” 

“I,” Morris spoke slowly—“I can’t say that I ex¬ 
pected to find her. I only thought there might be a 
chance. But I certainly did expect to find her sister, 
Anne.” 




PETER CLANCY 


29 

“Oh, there’s a sister,” said Clancy. “Well, per¬ 
haps she’ll turn up. Maybe she’s just gone away for 
the week-end, or you know it’s quite on the cards 
that she may have gone out this morning, even, and 
not come back yet. She might have been looking 
for something in that desk in a hurry and left it up¬ 
set. And as to the scarf, and the blood stain on it 
(I admit, you see, that it probably is blood) it 
might well be accounted for by some simple acci¬ 
dent-” 

Morris shook his head, the troubled frown remain¬ 
ing fixed upon his forehead. 

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “It’s impossible to dis¬ 
pose of the conditions here so easily. I’m sure you’ll 
agree with me when you see the rest of the apartment. 
Something has happened here—something sinister. 
I’m sure of it. I’m at a loss to understand it all,” 
he pressed his hand against his forehead as if the 
throbbing of his brain made his head ache, “but per¬ 
haps you can make a guess. Come and see.” 




CHAPTER IV 
A Viewless Room 

T^ONALD MORRIS turned quickly and opened 
a door immediately on the right of the one 
which led into the hall. 

“You found this closed?” asked Clancy. 

“Yes.” 

“Then we’ll keep it that way,” said Peter, suiting 
the action to the word. “I can always think better 
with everything as it was when found. Now, let’s 
see-” He glanced about him. 

They stood in what was evidently a bedroom, but 
here disorder reigned supreme. All the drawers of a 
tall old mahogany bureau stood open, the contents 
flung about on the floor. A dressing table, by the 
one large window, had been rifled. The drawers 
had been pulled completely out and emptied on its 
top. A mound of hairpins, fine lace collars, and other 
small accessories of the toilet showed what they had 
contained. The doors of two closets stood open, but 
the interior appeared undisturbed. A number of 
very handsome and elaborate gowns and evening 
wraps hung in one of them, carefully arranged on 
hangers and covered with muslin slips. A rack 
containing delicate evening slippers stood in order 


30 



A VIEWLESS ROOM 31 

on the floor. In the other closet were street clothes 
and shoes, all of fine quality and elegant pattern. 

Morris watched Clancy’s face. 

“What do you think now?” he asked, after a 
moment. 

Peter shook his head. 

“On its face, it’s a clear case of looting,” he replied, 
slowly. “By the way, was the window shade up, as 
it is now, when you discovered all this?” 

Morris’s tone was a trifle apologetic. “No, I 
remember I pulled up the blind to let in the light as 
soon as I came in.” 

Clancy crossed to the window and pulled aside the 
thin curtains which, as in the living room, covered it 
from top to bottom. He looked out on a deep, 
narrow well, or shaft, at the far end of which could 
be seen an open space, and beyond the backs of the 
houses at the opposite end of the block. On his 
right was the blank wall of the tall building next door. 

“No fire-escape here,” he murmured, half to him¬ 
self. “The thief, if it was a thief, didn’t get in this 
way, anyhow.” He looked once more about the 
room, photographing its every detail upon the sensi¬ 
tized plate of his analytical mind. “I guess that’ll be 
about all here for the present, Mr. Morris. Is there 
anything more?” 

“Only more of the same kind,” Morris replied, as~ 
he led the way through an open door into the narrow 
hall, which ran through the apartment from the 
living room in the front to the kitchen in the rear. 


32 THE SINISTER MARK' 1 

“This is the dining room,” he crossed the threshold 
of the next room on the right, “and you can see the 
condition here. Practically nothing left in the side¬ 
board drawers. The kitchen,” he led the way 
again, “seems to be all right, except that the window 
is broken just over the catch. The janitor called 
my attention to it. He came up with the officer to 
let us in and was much excited by the discovery. 
He said he knew that the window was not broken on 
the previous day. The officer thought it proved how 
the thief got in-” 

“H—m—m. Yes,” said Clancy, closely inspecting 
the window. “ Fire-escape here. Yes. So Sullivan 
got it all doped out, right off the bat, did he ? Clever 
boy, Sullivan, he sure is.” 

Clancy lingered a few minutes more in the kitchen, 
though Donald Morris could not, at the time, under¬ 
stand the reason for the delay. The detective stood 
gazing for quite a while at an innocent little sliver of 
ice which lay in the kitchen sink, apparently ob¬ 
livious of his surroundings. When he opened the 
pantry door, and also looked into the refrigerator, 
it flashed across Donald’s mind that he might be 
hungry and looking for something to eat, for this, in 
ordinary circumstances, would be the natural infer¬ 
ence from his actions, but if that were the case, 
Clancy made no mention of it, and at last signified 
that he had finished with the kitchen. 

There was only one other room in the apartment, 
a small one near the kitchen door, evidently intended 




A VIEWLESS ROOM 


33 

for a maid’s room but not used for that purpose, for 
a long rod, with a number of coat hangers upon it, 
crossed one side and a large trunk stood against the 
wall. The trunk was locked and the coat hangers 
were empty. A small, plain white chiffonier stood 
in one corner. The drawers were partly open, dis¬ 
closing a few gloves and other articles of woman’s 
apparel, all plain, old, and worn. 

Neither here nor in the bathroom, which came next, 
were there any signs of disturbance. 

As they stepped again into the hall, they were 
aware of a loud knocking on the door at the far end. 

“That’s Sullivan and the captain of the precinct, 
probably,” said Clancy. “I’ll go,” and passing 
Morris he went quickly down the hall and opened 
the door. 

His surmise proved to be correct. Sullivan ush¬ 
ered in Captain Fitzgerald and introduced his friend, 
Clancy, with evident pride. 

Clancy took charge of the situation and conducted 
the captain through the apartment. The inspection 
finished, they all returned to the living room, where 
Morris awaited them. 

“This is just a simple case of robbery, Mr. Morris,” 
said the bluff police captain, deferentially (for who 
had not heard of the son and heir of the great Morris 
estate?). “We’ll do our best to get hold of the lad 
as pulled it, but we’re kind of up against it, as you 
can easy see for yourself. Sullivan tells me that the 
apartment is rented by the two Miss Blakes and that 


34 THE SINISTER MARK 

they’re both away. So how can we tell what’s been 

taken, if any? Maybe you, being a friend-” 

“It happens that I have never been in the apart¬ 
ment before,” Morris interrupted, hastily, “though 
I know Miss Mary Blake very well.” 

“And do you know where the two of them has gone 
then?” inquired the captain. 

“No,” answered Morris, slowly. “No. I’m afraid 
I can’t help you there, either.” 

“Well, then, you see,” Captain Fitzgerald shrugged 
his broad shoulders, “we don’t know what’s missing 
and so we can’t know where to look for it, and equally 
if we don’t know what’s taken we don’t know what 
kind of a guy would have been taking it. I’d like to 
promise results, seeing it’s yourself has called us in, 
but it’d be just foolishness to do it till the ladies get 
back. As soon as they do, you let us know, and we’ll 

take up the case again, see? It’s all we can do-” 

“Sure it is, Captain,” agreed Peter, heartily. 
“Mr. Morris must see that in a plain case of burglary 
like this you can’t do anything till the owners appear 
and make a complaint. He’s perfectly satisfied and 
so am I. But you don’t mind if we stick around here 
for a bit, do you? We’ve got some business to talk 
over and it’s quiet here.” He paused, and the utter 
silence of the place smote his nerves. “Yes, it sure 
is quiet,” he thought within himself, “as quiet as 
death.” Then aloud—“We’ll lock up when we go 
and leave everything as is. So long, Sullivan. 
Much obliged to you, Captain. Hope I see you 




A VIEWLESS ROOM 


35 

again,” and with pleasant words of farewell he de¬ 
terminedly ushered Captain Fitzgerald and his satel¬ 
lite out into the hall. 

He closed the door carefully behind them, making 
sure that the lock was sprung, and returned to Morris 
who waited in the living room. 

“Well, that’s that,” said Peter with satisfaction, 
as he seated himself beside the window. 

Donald Morris was pacing about the room, a 
heavy, puzzled frown upon his face. He stopped in 
front of the detective. 

“Why did you get rid of the police in that abrupt 
fashion, Mr. Clancy?” he asked. “It seems to me 
that something ought to be done at once to track down 
this burglar, and we need all the help they can give 
us. I would do anything—pay anything—rather 
than to have Miss Blake suffer loss. With their 
help we might have found some clue—something to 
go upon. If it’s a simple case of robbery, as they 
think-” 

Clancy looked up gravely and slowly closed one 
eye. 

“If it is a simple case of robbery,” he repeated, 
“Captain Fitzgerald has done the only thing in his 
power. He’s got nothing to go ahead on, if—it—is— 
simply—robbery.” He said the last words so 
slowly and with so much meaning that Morris started 
eagerly forward, crying— 

“Then you don’t think-” 

“It may have been robbery,” Clancy interrupted, 






THE SINISTER MARK 


36 

with grave intent. “ But—it wasn’t a simple kind of 
robbery, that I’ll swear to.” 

“You mean?” 

“Mr. Morris, did you notice that kitchen window 
which was the obvious place for the thief to make his 
entrance, since the fire-escape led up to it?” asked 
Clancy, slowly. “Well,” he paused, “the window 
was broken just at the catch, where it ought to have 
been, but,” he shook an impressive forefinger, “the 
glass had fallen entirely on the outside of the window. 
There wasn’t a trace of it inside the room.” 


CHAPTER V 
Camouflage ? 

/^OOD God,” cried Donald Morris, sitting down 
suddenly and striking his hand on the arm of 
Clancy's chair. “Then I was right at first! Some¬ 
thing terrible has happened, something complicated 
and sinister! I had a feeling that it was so when I 
called you. I-” 

Peter leaned slightly forward and caught Morris's 
arm in a steadying grip. 

“Hold hard, Mr. Morris,” he said. “The whole 
thing may be a mare’s nest, only I'll say right now 
that it does look a bit queer to me. But we won't 
get anywhere near the solution if we don't start at 
the beginning. Now let’s get down to brass tacks.” 

Clancy felt the muscles under his hand relax some¬ 
what, so he released his hold of Morris’s arm and 
leaned back in his chair. 

“When you called me on the ’phone, you told me 
nothing except that you had found a scarf of Miss 
Blake's stained with blood and that Miss Blake had 
disappeared, and asked me to come here as fast as 
possible. I beat it down here and found that the 
apartment had, apparently, been looted and that 
neither of the two women who live here were to be 


37 



THE SINISTER MARK 


38 

found. Though, for the matter of that, have you 
any definite reason to think that either or both of 
them may not be back at any moment?” 

“I think—I believe I have reason to think that 
Miss Mary Blake intended to go away—or—oh, I 
don't know just what to think.” 

“But you did expect the sister to be here,” insisted 
Peter. 

“Yes,” Morris nodded. “I think I did expect to 
find her sister, Anne. And, as you say, for all I 
know she may come in at any moment-” 

Peter folded his arms and, gripping his chin in his 
hand, slowly shook his head. 

“She won't be back. Not for some time, any¬ 
way,” he said, deliberately. “I’m pretty sure of 
that. In fact, I feel positive that neither of the 
sisters will show up for some little time to come un¬ 
less their plans change.” 

“Why do you think that?” asked Morris, with a 
quick, eager frown. 

“The occupants of this apartment planned to leave 
it,” said Peter, gravely. “They made their plans 
well in advance, and one of them, at least, was a good 
housekeeper.” 

“How in the world do you know that?” asked 
Morris, frankly puzzled. 

“Perfectly obvious,” answered Peter, with a slight 
shrug. “Didn't you notice the bedroom in there?” 
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the room ad¬ 
joining. 



CAMOUFLAGE ? 


39 

“I—I don’t think I did, particularly,” Morris 
hesitated. “There was so much else-” 

“I know. But if you’d happened to notice the 
bed, you’d have seen that it had nothing on it at all 
but one sheet, and that wasn’t put on in the usual 
way, but was all over it, even covering the pillows. 
No housekeeper would fix a bed that way if she were 
coming back to-night, or to-morrow, or any time 
soon, would she?” 

“I haven’t much experience with that sort of thing,” 
said Morris, “but it doesn’t seem as if she would.” 

“Then there was the kitchen,” Clancy went on. 
“There wasn’t a bit of perishable food anywhere 
around. The refrigerator was entirely empty and 
the doors left open, just as my mother used to do 
when we all went away anywhere for a visit. The ice 
had been taken out and put in the sink. There’s a 
very little piece of it there now, or was when we 
looked the place over. Do you draw any conclusion 
from that?” 

“Only, as you say, that both the sisters must have 
intended to leave.” 

“And you get nothing more from the little piece of 
ice that hasn’t melted yet?” 

Morris shook his head. 

“Why, don’t you see,” Peter explained, with a little 
gleam in his eye, “that just about fixes the time they 
left. Given the size of the ice chamber, which is 
small, and the fact that the ice couldn’t have been 
left on Sunday, don’t you see that, with a hot night 



4 o THE SINISTER MARK 

like last night, it would have melted entirely away 
if it had been put into the sink earlier than yesterday 
afternoon? The box wouldn’t have held a piece big 
enough to last over if it had been put there in the 
morning. Somebody was in this apartment as late, I 
should say, as five o’clock yesterday afternoon.” 

“Then there was someone here when I came, just 
before lunch,” exclaimed Morris, quite convinced by 
the other’s rapid reasoning. 

“It’s more than probable,” said Peter. “At 
least there was someone here at a much later hour. 
I’m sure of that. Now, who was it? They evi¬ 
dently had no maid in the house. There’s no bed in 
the maid’s room and only a single bed and a big couch 
in the bedroom. Both of the sisters must have slept 
in there. Now, were they both here yesterday 
afternoon? and did they leave together? And then 
did someone break in?” he mused. “That’s, of 
course, what it looks like . . . and yet. . . . 

Why the glass on the outside of the kitchen window, 
if it was an outside job? And how do we know for 
certain that anything has been stolen? Is this rob¬ 
bery business camouflage?” He sat up suddenly 
and looked Donald Morris straight in the eye. 
“What do you think, yourself?” 

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Clancy,” 
answered Donald, pressing his hand to his forehead. 
“I really don’t. You see so much more clearly than 
I. You are able to reason everything out. You 
know everything that I do-” 



CAMOUFLAGE? 


4i 


“ Except—” said Peter, slowly and seriously— 
“you’ll forgive my mentioning it if it has no possible 
bearing on the case, but it goes without saying that 
you’re more anxious about Miss Blake than you could 
possibly be if she and her sister had just gone off on a 
trip and their apartment had been entered when they 
weren’t here. You told me that you were alarmed 
about her—that was why you came here this morn¬ 
ing. You mentioned a letter-” 

“Yes,” said Donald, rising and moving restlessly 
about the room. “There was the letter—and this.’’ 
He paused beside the table on which still lay the 
filmy scarf. He shuddered as he looked at it. “I 
was almost beside myself when I found it. I thought 
that the blood on it had flowed out from—something 
inside the door. . . . And the janitor, not know¬ 

ing me, refused to open the apartment. It wasn’t 
till I got the policeman. . . . Oh, God, it was 

awful! The suspense-’’ He strode abruptly to 

the window and did not turn until he had partially 
regained his composure. 

“And then—there was the letter-” Clancy 

persisted. “You said, some time ago, that it was 
strange, unaccountable. . . .’’ 

He waited a moment, watching Morris’s face. He 
could almost see the struggle which was going on in 
the mind of this clever, sophisticated man of the 
world, into whose world had been thrust an occur¬ 
rence with which no previous experience had given 
him the ability to cope. Would he show the letter? 





THE SINISTER MARK 


42 

Could he take a man, as Clancy felt himself to be, 
from another sphere, into his entire confidence? 

Donald’s eyes searched the face before him and 
Clancy returned his gaze with a glance so frank and 
open, so intelligent and resourceful, that Morris was 
favourably impressed, even more so than he had been 
when his cousin, Dick Schuyler, hastily summoned 
on the wire, had enthusiastically recommended Peter 
Clancy as the only absolutely dependable detective 
in New York. 

“Mr. Morris, why are you so sure that something 
has happened to Miss Blake?” asked Peter, putting 
an end to an almost imperceptible pause. “You do 
think something unpleasant has happened, don’t you ? 
Something pretty awful—else why have you called me 
in? And now that I am in, how can I help you if you 
won’t give me a look at the hand you’re holding?” 

He smiled his winning, cheerful smile and spread 
out his hands. Morris straightened his shoulders 
and cleared his throat. The uncertainty was gone 
from his eyes. 

“You’re right, Mr. Clancy. Perfectly right,” he 
said. “I’m sure there’s something wrong, dreadfully 
wrong here, and I want your help. I will give you 
every assistance in my power and will be perfectly 
frank and open with you. What I am about to tell 
you is known to no one and I will ask you to treat it 
in confidence.” 

“You may be quite at ease in your mind about 
that,” said Peter, promptly. “My job wouldn’t 


CAMOUFLAGE? 


43 

amount to a hill of beans if I couldn’t keep my mouth 
shut and my eyes open. So let me have what you’ve 
got and, believe me,” he added, seriously, “it goes to 
the bottom of the well, and I’ll help you for all I’m 
worth and then some.” 

Clancy’s manner was so straightforward and en¬ 
gaging that Donald impulsively held out his hand. 
Peter returned the strong clasp, and the two young 
men, so near in age, so far apart in experience of the 
world, became firm allies. 

As their hands fell apart, Morris spoke— 

“First of all, I must tell you,” he said, with dignity, 
“that I have asked Miss Mary Blake to become my 
wife.” 

Peter drew in a sharp breath. He knew, as all the 
world knew, of Mary Blake’s sudden leap from ob¬ 
scurity into world-wide fame; he had some knowl¬ 
edge, through friends in the theatrical profession, of 
how dark that obscurity had remained. And Donald 
Morris—the heir to the Morris millions! That he 
should- 

“And Miss Blake has accepted.” Clancy’s words 
were in no sense a question, so sure was he that there 
could be no other conclusion. 

Morris flushed slightly. 

“She refused,” he said, quietly, “but in such a way 

that I had hopes—I believed-” He paused, then 

went on, “That was late Saturday night. I have 
not seen her since. There is only her letter, and-” 

“May I see the letter?” asked Peter, gravely. “I 






44 


THE SINISTER MARK 


think, perhaps, that it’s a lot to ask, but, you see,” 
he broke off, “there isn’t so much to show here that 
there’s anything to be alarmed at. It looks as if 
there had been a burglary—and there’s that scarf. 
But there isn’t an awful lot to get excited about, 
seems to me. If Miss Blake went off at the end of 
the season and took her sister with her-” 

“That’s another thing,” interrupted Donald, 
hastily. “Did her sister go with her? Somehow—I 
can’t just tell you why—I have a feeling that perhaps 
she didn’t. Though I’ve never met Miss Anne, 
somewhere I’ve gotten the impression that—that 
they weren’t exactly friendly. . . . Whether it 

was the way Mary spoke when I asked about her 
sister ... or whether it was what she said in 
the letter.” 

“Let me see the letter, Mr. Morris,” said Clancy, 
gravely. “Let me judge for myself.” 




CHAPTER VI 
“My Sister, Anne- 




OLOWLY, Donald Morris put his hand inside the 
^ breast of his coat and drew out several slightly 
crumpled sheets of paper. He spread them out and 
his eyes rested tenderly on these words— 

My Beloved - 

I write it for the first—and perhaps, who knows—the last 
time. But I have said it in my heart for so long—My beloved! 
I can say it to you now without shame—after last night. 

His eyes travelled on down the succeeding pages 
to the end. When he had finished, he turned down 
the top of the first page. 

“I will ask you not to read that.” He addressed 
Clancy with a quiet reserve which became him well. 
“It is significant only to me and, I think, can have 
no bearing on what has happened. I will be glad if 
you will read the rest.” 

He handed the letter to Clancy who scrutinized it 
closely. It was evidently written in haste and under 
the stress of great excitement. He read— 

I did not sleep. I have been thinking and thinking—how 
much to tell you—how to explain- 

My sister Anne, with whom I live is- 

45 







THE SINISTER MARK 


46 

(This last sentence was heavily crossed out, almost 
obliterated, but Peter was sure that these were the 
words.) The letter went on— 

No, I will not tell you about Anne, about the bitterness and 
tragedy of my life. If it can be removed, if I escape, whole and 
clean, I will come to you. There is danger, I know, on account 

of- No, I cannot tell you the danger without explaining all. 

But danger is nothing to me now. I will put fate to the test and 
have done. 

What I do I must do quickly, before my courage fails. If I 

were to see you again- That can not be. I could not see you 

face to face again and not tell you—and then- 

No, I’m determined. I’ve let things go on too long. I saw 
it in your dear face when I left you. I am determined that you 
shall make no sacrifice for me. 

If I fail, there will be no one left but Anne, and you will never 
find her. She will see to that. If I succeed, I will come back to 
you. I promise, my beloved, as solemnly as if I were on my death¬ 
bed. I will come back and tell you all that I have hidden so care¬ 
fully, my ugly, pitiful secret, which is known to but one person, 
now, in all the world—and after that, you may do as you will 
with me. 

If I never see you again, believe, oh, you must believe, that I 
love you. That, knowing you as I have come to know you, I 
will stake everything to come clean in your eyes, or I will never 
look into your dear eyes again. I am thinking of you, my 
dearest in all the world, only of you, and I beg, with my heart 
full of tears, that if I fail, you will remember gently her whom you 
have known as 

Mary Blake. 

Peter sat for a long time after he had finished read¬ 
ing, lost in thought. At last he stirred and, pointing 
to the signature, he said: 

“Then Mary Blake is not her own name.” 





“MY SISTER, ANNE-” 47 

Morris shook his head. “No, I know that to be 
her stage name only,” he said, quietly. 

“And her real name is?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Peter thought, “And yet he has asked her to be his 
wife. She must be a wonder!” Aloud he said, re¬ 
ferring to the letter: 

“I think there is something here to account for 
your impression that Miss Blake wasn’t too keen on 
her sister Anne. At any rate, the sister seems to be 
connected in some way with the thing that was 
troubling her. Did you make out this blotted place? 
These words crossed out?” 

He indicated with his finger. Donald bent above 
the crumpled sheet. 

“Yes,” he said, “I made it out to be, ‘My sister 
Anne, with whom I live, is’-” 

“That’s what I make it,” said Clancy. “And 
then she speaks again, right after it, of the bitterness 
and tragedy of her life, and it seems to be in con¬ 
nection with Anne. . . . And here again,” he 

turned the page, “she says there will be no one left 
but Anne, and that you will never find her. What 
does that mean? And who is the one person who 
knows her secret? Surely her sister, who lives with 
her, would be the most likely to-” 

“And the danger,” Morris broke in. “She speaks 
of danger. Oh, God! And she isn’t here and I don’t 
know where she’s gone! ” He clenched his hands upon 
the chair arms and looked at Peter in agonized entreaty. 





THE SINISTER MARK 


48 

“We’ll take steps to find her,” Peter said, firmly, 
encouragingly. “And we’ll start this instant. 
Come! We’ll get the janitor up here and see what 
he knows, since we’re on the spot. He must know 
something, at least, about their ordinary habits, 
whether a maid came in by the day, who some of 
their friends are, possibly. We might get a clue, a 
hint, from anywhere or anybody. You never can 
tell. We’ve got to trust a good deal to luck. But 
you know ‘the luck of the Irish’!” This with a 
cheerful grin as he went toward the door. “I’ll get 
the Dago first,” he said, and vanished. ... 


CHAPTER VII 
A Splash of Blood 

^ I A HE door closed after Peter with a snap of the 
spring lock, and Donald Morris waited, striding 
nervously about. At every turn in the length of the 
room he paused beside the frail scarf which still lay 
upon the table. It drew him with an irresistible, 
horrible fascination. 

Whose blood was that upon it? What fearful 
scene had taken place in this quiet room? The over¬ 
turned table suggested that there might have been a 
struggle. But what sort of a struggle, and between 
whom? Was there some secret animosity between 
these two sisters, living so closely together and in 
such seclusion? That had been his impression for a 
long time. Was it correct? And if so, what then? 
Had the feeling between them been serious enough 
to cause- 

His troubled reflections were interrupted by a quick, 
quiet knock on the outer door. He went swiftly into 
the shadowy hall, and hearing the detective’s voice 
just outside, he threw open the door, disclosing 
Clancy and the janitor. 

The latter seemed very much abashed by the 
summons. He snatched off his old hat, and with his 


49 



THE SINISTER MARK 


50 

two hands clasped behind his back he bowed several 
times in a quick, foreign way, and smiled deprecat- 
ingly. 

He was dressed in an old loose pair of dark trousers 
and a blue-and-white striped, long-sleeved blouse, 
open at the throat. Altogether he appeared what he 
was—a kindly, childlike, dirty little Italian, such as 
one may see by the hundred in the section south of 
Washington Square. 

“Come on in, Angelo,” said Clancy, pleasantly. 
“Don’t be afraid. Mr. Morris and I just want to 
ask you a few questions. Name’s Angelo Russo,” 
he added, turning to Morris. “Says he’s been jani¬ 
tor here for about four years.” Then, turning back, 
he took the seemingly reluctant Italian by the arm. 
“Come in here, Angelo,” he repeated. “Nothing 
for you to be afraid of. I guess Sullivan must have 
treated you kind of rough, didn’t he? But he didn’t 
mean anything. Professional etiquette, that’s all. 
Now sit down there and make yourself comfortable, 
and tell us what you know about the tenants 
here.” 

His manner was cheerful and disarming, and the 
janitor was reassured. He seated himself on the edge 
of a chair near the door of the living room and an¬ 
swered Peter’s questions with a volubility which was 
almost overwhelming. 

“No know mucha bout da ladies,” he said, with a 
characteristic shrug and a nervous grin. “Ver’ 
quiet, ver’ nice. Both keep alia to selves. Both 


A SPLASH OF BLOOD 


5i 


speak pleasant to Angelo, no speak mucha. Say 
‘Nice clay, Angelo,’ Mees Anne say, ev’ morn’ she go 
out buy grub. Dat all. ‘Nice day, Angelo.’ Da 
tall, gran’ one, Mees Mary, she say, ‘Good eve’, 
Angelo,’ if see her when she go teatro at night. No 
see her ver’ mucha. No roun’ vestabula, me, lika in 
morn’ when Mees Anne come down. Den-” 

“What does Miss Anne look like, Angelo?’* 
Donald Morris interrupted. He was filled with an 
intense desire to learn all that was possible about the 
strange sister whom he had never seen—whom, now, 
it appeared he would never see if Mary’s letter gave 
the exact fact. “There will be no one left but Anne, 
and you will never see her. She will see to that.’’ 
Why would there be no one left but Anne? 
Where- 

“She looka da nice, quiet lady,’’ again the Italian 
shrug and the gesture of open hands. “Weara da 
black, ver’ plain. No tall an’ gran’ lika da sist’. 
She looka lika alia da ladies, only she hava da big, 

reda mark on face, here, looka lika blood-’’ 

r “You mean a birthmark?’’ Clancy broke in 
hastily. “A conspicuous birthmark?’’ He ex¬ 
changed a hopeful glance with Morris. A thing of 
that sort ought to make it easier to trace her, if it be¬ 
came necessary. 

“Non capisch da birt’mark,’’ Angelo showed a 
slightly puzzled face, “but he big reda place alia 
lika here.” He raised a stubby brown hand and 
passed it across his dark cheek and down on his 





52 THE SINISTER MARK 

neck. “Too mucha bad,” he added. “Oth’ side she 
awright.” 

“Did she resemble Miss Mary?” asked Morris, 
eagerly. “Did she look at all like her sister?” 

“N’, no!” The Italian’s negation was very em¬ 
phatic. “Mees Mary tall, lika Madonn’, stan’ 
straight,” he lifted his square body in the chair, 
“lika da lil\ See face tru vail lika ange’ in cloud, si, 
si. Sometime me lika see no vail. N’, no. Ev’ 
time she wear him. Tinka, me, she wear him so 
peopl’ in street not know she great Mees Blake 
ev’bod’ talk ’bout.” 

Morris nodded. “That’s true, Angelo. But tell 
us more about Miss Anne. We know how Miss Mary 
looked.” There was a world of sadness in his voice. 
“Describe Miss Anne to us. Was she tall or short?” 

“Si, si. Pret’ gooda tall,” answered the janitor, 
considering heavily, “but no so ver’. She hanga 
down, lika dis,” drooping slightly forward. “She 
looka ver’ sad alia time. She nev’ speak, only, 
‘Gooda morn’, Angelo.’ That all. Jus’ ‘Gooda 
morn’, Angelo’.” 

“How long were the sisters here?” asked Clancy. 

“Not know for sure. Come two, tree year ago. 
Soon aft’ me taka da job.” 

“So long as that, and you don’t know anything 
more about them?” asked Peter, sharply. 

Again the shrug, with eyebrows raised. “How 
me know mucha ’bout da ladies? Justa da janitor, 


A SPLASH OF BLOOD 


53 

“Well, you must know,” said Peter, “what ser¬ 
vants they had.” 

“No serv’, no serv’ ’tall,” Angelo replied, quickly. 
“Two ladies all alone. Tinka dey do alia own work. 
Tinka, me, Mees Anne do alia work, an’ Mees Mary, 
she sleep late. No see come down till time for she go 
teatro. Mees Anne she go out ev’ morn’-” 

“All right,” Peter interrupted. “Then they had 
no servants—not even a laundress?” 

“Me no know—maybe. Somebod’ might come 
for wash. Me no know who, if anybod’. Me no in 
hall alia time. Only morn’ when clean up hall—me 
liva da basemen’. Door no lock alia da day. If 
somebod’ ringa da bell, me go.” 

“Then you don’t know if the ladies had many 
visitors, or who they were?” asked Peter, with a 
frown. The conversation seemed not to be eliciting 
anything useful to his purpose. 

The janitor shook his head. 

“See ol’ lady come, two, tree, four time. Fine, 

gran’ ol’ lady, ver’ big, wide-” Angelo thrust out 

his hands together, palms down, to the full reach of 
his short arms, and brought them around to his sides 
in a full, sweeping curve, graphically expressive of 
great embonpoint. “Gran’ ol’ lady,” he repeated, his 
white teeth flashing in a grin, “she puffa some on alia 
da stair!” 

* 

“You don’t know her name?” Peter inquired, 
eagerly. 

Again the Italian shook his head. 




THE SINISTER MARK 


54 

“Or where she lives?” 

“How know, me?” was the reasonable response. 

“And you’ve never seen any other friends of 
theirs?” 

“No, no. No see anybod’.” 

Peter realized that there was no hope in this direc¬ 
tion. He leaned back and thought for a moment, 
frowning, his keen eyes half closed. Morris shifted, 
uneasily, in his chair. He felt that they were merely 
wasting time. He had no ideas as to what should be 
done in the circumstances, but he felt, agonizingly, 
that they should be doing somethir\g—anything. 
At last Clancy spoke: 

“It was easy enough for both the sisters to leave 
without your seeing them, then, Angelo?” 

“Oh, si, si. Easy—sure!” 

“And they said nothing to you about going? That 
seems a little queer to me. Did they ever go away 
before, and leave the apartment empty, and not tell 
you to look out for things?” 

“No tinka dey both go sama time before. Mees 
Mary, she go in summer time, but Mees Anne stay 
alia time home.” 

Peter looked around the room. Had they gone 
away together this time, amicably, as sisters should ? 
The strange phrasing of the letter came back to him, 
and his eyes rested, in disturbed consideration, on the 
blood-stained scarf. 

Suddenly he^rose from his chair. “I guess that’s 
about all, Angelo,” he said. “ I don’t suppose you’re 


A SPLASH OF BLOOD 55 

familiar enough with things here,” he glanced again 
about the disordered room, ‘'to know what’s miss¬ 
ing.” 

“No, no.” The janitor jumped to his feet, shak¬ 
ing his head rapidly, emphatically. “Mos’ nev’ 
come up here, me. No know what gone. Sleepa in 
basemen’. My wife she sick—she hear noding, me 
hear noding! Burg’ he mus’a go up fi’-’scape into 
da kitch’, you see? Wind’ broke-” 

“Yes, I saw that the window was broken,” said 
Peter, quietly. “Well, we’re much obliged to you, 
Angelo. I guess we won’t need you any more, but 
I may see you again. I may be coming in here a few 
times. It’ll be all right. You can ask Sullivan. 
He knows me and Mr. Morris, too.” 

At the words of dismissal the Italian, nothing 
loath, started for the door. Peter followed him into 
the hall. 

“You keep your eyes open, Angelo,” he said, 
“and let us know if any one comes to this apartment. 
We’ll make it worth your while. And, by the way, 
who has the apartment just below this?” 

The janitor’s left hand was on the knob of the door. 
“Nobod’. He’s empty. Been empty two, tree 
mont’.” 

“All right, Angelo,” said Peter, smiling genially. 
“Don’t forget what I said about letting us know if 
any one, any one , mind, comes to this apartment or 
asks for Miss Blake or her sister. Find out who it is 
if you possibly can. It’ll be worth more than this to 



THE SINISTER MARK 


5 6 

you, by a damsight,” and he thrust a folded bdl into 
the janitor’s welcoming palm. 

The Italian’s sharp little eyes glanced up and 
away. “Me tella you somebod’ come,” he agreed, 
readily. 

“Oh, and before you go,” said Peter, in an off-hand 
manner, “just leave me the door key, will you?” 

“Door he shutta da spring lock,” explained Angelo, 
quickly. “No needa da key.” 

“No?” said Peter, casually. “Well, I’d rather 
have the key, anyway. Always feel safer, somehow. 
I’m so absent-minded, Angelo, that I often forget 
things and have to go back for ’em, and if the door 
was shut, I’d have to go all the way to the basement 
to hunt you up, see? Just give me the key and I’ll 
leave it with you when I go down.” 

“Awright, awright,” said the Italian, pulling a 
key from a ring which was secured by a chain to his 
belt. “Me tinka awright,” and he opened the outer 
door. 

As he did so, the sun, nearing the zenith, shone in 
from the front room, striking full upon the white 
panels, and Peter, who was just behind him, uttered 
a sharp exclamation and started forward. Instinc¬ 
tively, he caught the Italian’s arm and drew him 
away from the door. 

“Just a moment. Mr. Morris!” he called in 
a voice the excitement of which was carefully 
held in check. “Come here just a moment, will 
you? 


A SPLASH OF BLOOD 


57 

“Look here.” He spoke again as Donald Morris 
quickly reached his side. “Look at this!” 

Angelo Russo caught his breath, and crossed him¬ 
self, fervently. “Madre di Dio!” he whispered to 
himself. 

Morris, leaning forward, felt a horrible shiver pass 
over him from head to foot. 

On the white door, just below the lock, was a long, 
dark splash of blood. 


CHAPTER VIII 
The Voice Over the Wire 

T DON’T know how it escaped me before, except 
-*■ that the hall was so dark,” muttered Peter, 
angrily, to himself, as he closed the door upon the 
Italian’s hurried departure. 

Hastily he took a small but powerful electric hand- 
light from his pocket and flashed it slowly all about. 
The door showed no further traces, inside or out, but 
on the floor, which was stained dark brown and heav¬ 
ily waxed, there were two or three dull, round spots. 
Peter tested them with moistened forefinger, and 
held up his hand to Morris. The end of the finger 
was stained red. 

Swiftly he proceeded down the hall, flashing his 
torch back and forth close to the floor. As he came 
opposite the door of the room which had been used 
as a storeroom or closet, Morris who, white to the 
lips, had followed closely, heard him give a little 
grunt of satisfaction and saw him drop to his 
knees. 

“Plenty of it here,” said Clancy, pointing, and he 
flashed the light so as to bring out a large, dull blot 
upon the softly shining wax o*f the floor. “And here! 
and here!” he added, indicating smaller spots just 

58 


THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 59 

beyond on the floor and one, showing dark red, on the 
white baseboard. 

A moment later he rose. Rapidly and thoroughly 
he inspected the entire apartment, flashing his hand- 
torch into all the dark corners. Morris, silent and 
apprehensive, followed him, closely watching every 
movement. They found nothing more, and return¬ 
ing to the living room, Peter stood for several mo¬ 
ments before the window, lost in thought. At last 
he turned to Donald Morris and said: 

“I won’t try to put anything over on you, Mr. 
Morris. The detective who’s able to dope out every¬ 
thing in a complicated case by looking at a little 
bunch of ashes doesn’t exist. You can take it from 
me,” with a wry smile, “there ain’t no such animal. 

. . . Frankly, I’m at a loss. How serious this 

thing is, it’s impossible for me to say. But it looks 
like a pretty ugly combination of circumstances, 
I’ll go that far. ... If you want to go on with 
the proposition—and I take it for granted that you 
do-” 

“I do, I must!” There was no uncertainty in 
Donald’s tone. 

“Well, then, our best bet is to get busy tracing Miss 
Blake and her sister. We’re only wasting time. Ap¬ 
parently there’s nobody here who knows anything 
about where they might have gone, who their friends 
are, or-” 

Both men started violently. In the stillness of the 
room a telephone bell rang out, loudly, insistently. 




Go 


THE SINISTER MARK 

Peter faced swiftly about to the instrument which 
stood on a small stand to the left of the door into the 
hall. With a leap he reached it, caught the receiver 
off the hook, and held it to his ear. 

“9282 Sturdevant?” a voice intoned over the 
wire. 

Peter glanced at the little plate over the mouth¬ 
piece and replied at once: 

“9282 Sturdevant. Who’s calling?” 

“Just a moment,” came the honeyed reply. 
“Here’s your party.” 

“Somebody calling this apartment, all right.” 
Holding his hand over the transmitter, Peter spoke to 
Donald Morris, whose face was a study in anxiety and 
excitement. 

There was an instant’s silence; then along the 
wires came another voice, clear and resonant, deep 
and full, though whether that of a man or woman 
Peter could not be sure. 

“Anne,” it said. “Anne! Are you there?” 

Morris was surprised at Clancy’s answering tone. 
It was low and gentle, not at all like his usual voice. 

“Who’s calling?” Clancy repeated, softly. 

“ Why, Anne! You know. You-” Evidently 

Peter’s attempt at dissimulation was not entirely 
successful, for the voice went on, sharply—“What 
number is this?” and waited, necessitating a reply. 

“This is 9282 Sturdevant. Whom are you calling?” 

“I’m calling Miss Anne Blake,” was the quick re¬ 
sponse. “Is she there, and who are you?” 



THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 61 

“Miss Anne isn’t here now,” said Peter, smoothly. 
“Can I take a message?” 

He thought there was a note of alarm in the reply 
—“No. No. I want to find Anne Blake. I want 
to speak to her at once.” 

“Would Miss Mary do?” asked Peter. 

He was sure that there was a quickly restrained 
gasp at the other end of the wire. Then the voice 
said, peremptorily: 

“I want to know who this is speaking from Miss 
Blake’s apartment.” 

“Who is it wishes to know?” Peter countered. 

There was a pause. Peter waited. . . . The 

pause lengthened and Peter again spoke into the 
transmitter— 

“Hello, hello!” 

No answer. 

Peter waited a moment and then moved the re¬ 
ceiver up and down on the hook without effect. At 
last— 

“Operator,” came in a dulcet voice over the wire. 

“Connect me with that party again,” cried Peter, 
urgently. “You’ve cut us off.” 

“What number was it, please?” 

“I don’t know,” fiercely. “See if you can trace 
it. And hurry!” and Peter waited, holding the re¬ 
ceiver to his ear. 

“Who was it?” cried Morris, unable to restrain 
his anxiety. 

“I don’t know, dammit!” said Peter, vehemently. 


62 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“Im afraid I’ve made a fool of myself. Somebody 
calling Miss Anne Blake, and they shied off when they 
found she wasn't here. I wish to God I knew who it 
was. Anybody that knows her well enough to call 
her ‘Anne’. ... It must have been a friend who 
might know something that would help! And they 
cut off, I'm sure. Purposely. Oh-" 

“Here's your party," said the operator in his ear. 

“Maybe it's all right," said Clancy, hopefully, to 
Morris. “They've got the connection again. Hello! 
Who is this?" 

“Vanderbilt Hotel," came the prompt answer. 

“Will you please find out for me who just 
called Sturdevant 9282, and get them on the wire 
again r 

Peter repeated the name of the hotel to Donald 
Morris and both men waited anxiously. It seemed 
an age before the information came back— 

“Party spoke from a public booth. We don’t 
know who it was. Sorry." 

Peter hung up the receiver with an angry click and 
turned to Morris, repeating the answer he had just 
received. 

“It's a damn shame," he went on. “I'd give a 
good deal to know who it is that's worried about 
Anne Blake just now. The man or woman, which¬ 
ever it was, that just called was pretty well fussed up 
and afraid of making a break. And now it's all off! 
. . . Well—it leaves us about where we were be¬ 

fore we were so rudely interrupted. There’s nothing 



THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 63 

1 

to do but to start tracing Miss Blake and her sister 
from here—and the sooner we begin, the quicker we’ll 
find them.” 

“But where can we start? We know nothing of 
their movements,” said Donald, in a tone of deep dis¬ 
couragement. 

“Pardon me,” said Clancy. “We do know some¬ 
thing, though I admit it’s not much. We may infer, 
I think, that there was someone in this apartment, 
probably as late as five o’clock yesterday. . . . 

That was Sunday . . . and if there was any 
luggage, which almost undoubtedly there was, it 
means a cab, since it would have been impossible to 
get an expressman. . . . Miss Blake didn’t have 
a car of her own by any chance?” he asked, on sud¬ 
den thought. 

“No,” replied Morris, eagerly, his anxiety slightly 
mitigated by the prospect of immediate action. 
“But I happen to know that she habitually used a 
taxi from a garage over near Sixth Avenue. She 
spoke once about how reliable they were. Let me 
see. . . . The name was . . . Horton—no 

—Holden? . . . No, I can’t be sure. But I 

know the place. We passed it coming from the 
theatre and she pointed it out to me.” He rose, 
excitedly. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is,” 
and he caught Peter’s arm in a nervous grip. 

“That’s good news,” cried Peter, enthusiastically. 
“Now we’ll begin. But there’s something I must do 
before we go. I may want to come in here without 



64 THE SINISTER MARK 

disturbing our friend, Angelo. It won’t take a 
minute.” 

He drew a small piece of wax from his pocket and 
began working it up in his fingers, while Morris 
watched him, his impatience somewhat tempered by 
curiosity. 

“Carry a lot of odd things about with me,” Clancy 
explained. “Need almost as many as a first-class 
burglar. You see,” he went on, as with practised 
fingers he took an impression, in the wax, of the key 
Angelo had left with him. “You never can tell when 
' a thing’ll come in handy. I may need it and then, of 
course, I may not. But it’s just as well to be pre¬ 
pared.” He put the model carefully away in a small 
case and returned the case to his pocket. “Now I’m 
ready,” he added, briskly, catching up his hat from a 
table just inside the door of the living room. And 
without further words the two men hastily closed the 
door, made sure that it was fast, and descended the 
stairs at a run. 

Peter called to Angelo from the top of the base¬ 
ment stairs, delivered the key, and joining Morris, 
who waited impatiently at the door, they passed out 
into the busy streets. 

The noise of traffic increased as they neared Sixth 
Avenue, and Peter Clancy, whose susceptibilities 
and intuitions were preternaturally keen, contrasted 
the busy roar and rattle and movement of many 
people with the silence and aloofness of the still 
place they had just left. Somehow, he had the cer- 


THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 65 

tain intuition that those quiet walls had sheltered a 
tragic situation, unexplained and, perhaps, unexplain¬ 
able. The mere fact that he had so little to go upon 
piqued his vivid curiosity and brought up every re¬ 
serve of his fighting Irish instincts. He swore to 
himself that he would solve this enigma, that he 
would find out every detail of this strange situation, 
if it took “till Kingdom Come.” 

His feeling was greatly enhanced by the personality 
of the man who was hurrying by his side. No one who 
had ever been admitted, in any degree, to Donald 
Morris’s confidence had failed to feel his remarkable 
charm. Peter had seen him in an hour of great stress, 
when every mere conventionality had been swept 
away, and a very real personal desire to be of service 
was the result of this glimpse of the actual man. 

These thoughts passed rapidly through the mind 
of the young detective as they hurried along the 
streets. They had not far to go, as the garage in 
question was east of Sixth Avenue, in one of the cross 
streets, just above Washington Square. Morris led 
the way unhesitatingly. 

“There it is,” he said as they turned the corner. 
“Hammond’s Garage. I knew it began with an H. 
Miss Blake has used this garage exclusively for some 
time. They’ll be sure to know-” 

“Let’s go a bit easy,” said Clancy, with his hand 
on Donald’s arm. “We don’t want to get up more 
excitement than is absolutely necessary. Suppose 
you leave it to me.” 



66 


THE SINISTER MARK 


Morris nodded a ready acquiescence, and promptly 
abandoning his place as leader, followed Peter into 
the little office, beside the big door of the garage. 

“Good morning,” said Peter, pleasantly, to a heav¬ 
ily built man, who turned his swivel chair away from 
his desk at their approach and regarded them with 
the calm of a man whose business came to him with¬ 
out strenuous effort. “Is this Mr. Hammond?” 
Peter continued. 

“It is,” said the man, shifting a large, unlighted 
cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth. 

“My name’s Clancy,” Peter went on. “I just 
dropped in on an errand for Miss Blake—Ninety- 
nine Waverly Place, you know.” He wished to make 
sure that this was the right garage and waited for the 
affirmative nod which immediately followed. “Miss 
Blake wants to know,” he continued, smoothly, 
“why you didn’t send the taxi for her yesterday at 
five.” 

Mr. Hammond’s composure was slightly shaken. 
He frowned and ponderously swung about to the 
desk. He opened a large book which lay upon it and 
ran his finger down the entries of a page dated May 
twenty-eighth. Frowning still more, he shook his 
head and called loudly— 

“Joe!” 

Immediately an overalled mechanic, with a long 
smear of black grease on his nose, appeared at the 
door. 

“Yep.” 



THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 67 

“Did you get a call for Ninety-nine Waverly any 
time yesterday afternoon ?” 

“I did not.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I am that.” There was no hesitation, no un¬ 
certainty in the tone. 

Donald Morris looked quickly at Clancy, but 
Clancy was entirely occupied with the two garage men. 

“Well, that’s funny,” said Peter, with a puzzled 
frown. “Miss Blake was very much annoyed when 
your taxi didn’t come, and she had to get one from— 
where was it now? She told me, but I can’t remem¬ 
ber. What’s the name of another public garage 
near here?” 

“I don’t think there is any decent one anywhere 
near here except mine, but there’s a cab stand at the 
Lafayette. Maybe she got it from there. It would 
be the nearest place. Anyhow, Mr.—Mr. Clancy, 
you can bet we didn’t get the call, or we’d ’a’ been on 
the job. We’ve been drivin’ Miss Blake for a couple 
of years or more and we’re always very particular, 

anyway. Let’s see-” Hammond again referred 

to his book. “We took Ninety-nine Waverly to the 
theatre Saturday evening at seven forty-five, but we 
didn’t have a call to get her after the performance 
that night. . . . No. The last is May twenty- 

seventh at seven forty-five. Nothing after that.” 
He glanced at the mechanic who was waiting at the 
door. “All right, Joe,” with a nod of dismissal, and 
the man disappeared. 



68 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“I can’t explain it,” Hammond turned to Peter, 
“only we didn’t get the call, and I wisht you’d tell 
Miss Blake so. Joe’s been here for a long time and 
he’s very careful. Never knew him to make a mis¬ 
take. Them darned telephone operators might have 
given her the wrong number and somebody thought 
they’d play a joke by sayin’ they’d come for her. I 
can’t think how else-” 

“Well, it’s a mistake, then,” said Peter, pleasantly, 
“and I’ll tell Miss Blake—when I see her. Sorry to 
have troubled you,” and with an apologetic wave of 
the hand, he took Donald Morris by the arm and led 
him, disappointed and perplexed, into the street. 

“Cheer up,” said Peter, as he turned him eastward. 
“Don’t get discouraged. We’ve only just begun. 
This may be a long chase and, as I said, we’ll have to 
trust a good deal to luck. I’m not disappointed a 
whole lot, as I had a kind of a hunch that the cab 
might not have come from a place where Miss Blake 
was well known. We’ll try the Lafayette, since it’s 
so near, and if we don’t find anything there, I’ll get 
my partner, O’Malley, on the ’phone and we’ll comb 
the city for that cab.” 

“Like looking for a needle in a haystack,” muttered 
Morris, wearily. 

“Oh, not so bad as that,” said Peter. “We’ve 
got that sort of thing pretty well systematized. It 
may take a little time, but we’re bound to find a cab, 
unless they left on foot, with only hand luggage, and 
that’s hardly probable, is it?” 



THE VOICE OVER THE WIRE 69 

“No, it doesn’t seem probable,” Morris said, after 
a pause. “And they couldn’t get an expressman on 
Sunday, of course. . . . Miss Blake expected 

to spend the summer in town . . . and she was 

here Saturday night, late. . . . She wouldn’t 

have sent her trunks beforehand. ... It was a 
sudden resolution. . . .” 

They were making their way eastward at a rapid 
rate, and in a few minutes they reached University 
Place and the pleasant old Lafayette. . . . He 

and Mary had dined there several times, Morris re¬ 
membered with an inward groan, in some secluded 
corner where the lights were dim. Always she had 
avoided attracting attention, never seeking the public 
eye, except upon the stage. Unlike most actresses, 
she had even been averse to being photographed. 
He could remember only a few portraits which had 
been taken at the beginning of her career. Her face 
would be familiar to those who had seen her on the 
stage, but to few others. The thought troubled him 
now, since it would add to the difficulty of tracing 
her. 

Clancy had left him upon the sidewalk at the en¬ 
trance of the hotel. Running up the steps, the de¬ 
tective had exchanged a few words with the doorman. 
After that he had spoken to several of the taxi 
drivers lined up along the curb. Suddenly he 
turned, and beckoning excitedly to Morris, took a few 
rapid steps in his direction. 

“The luck of the Irish!” Peter exclaimed, joy- 


THE SINISTER MARK 


70 

fully, as the two young men met. ‘‘You can’t beat 
it! IVe found the man.” 

“No!” cried Morris, eagerly. 

“Yes!” said Peter with emphasis. “The next to 
the last man on the line, the one I just spoke to, took 
a lady and a trunk from Ninety-nine Waverly Place 
a little after five yesterday afternoon. Come on, 
and we’ll get the rest!” 


CHAPTER IX 

What the Cabman Knew 

/^\NE lady?” questioned Morris, excitedly, catch- 
ing Peter by the arm as they hurried toward the 
taxi, the driver of which stood, expectant, by its open 
door. 

“Only one,” said Peter, in a low voice, “and I 
don’t know yet which one, but we’ll soon find out.” 

He motioned Morris to get into the cab, and spoke 
familiarly to the chauffeur: “Drive us over to the 
Square, old top, and line up along somewhere where 
it’s quiet. We want to have a little talk with you. 
And you can keep your metre ticking, so that’ll be 
O. K.,” he added, with a grin. 

The driver, a big, strong young fellow, grinned 
pleasantly in response and jumped to his wheel. In 
a moment they drew up in a quiet spot on the old 
Square. 

“This do?” asked the taxi man, turning in his place 
and speaking through the open front of the cab. 

“Fine,” answered Peter, who was seated directly 
behind him. He leaned forward and spoke in a 
friendly, confidential manner. “We want to find 
out something about the lady you took from over 
there,” he pointed in the direction of Waverly Place, 


THE SINISTER MARK 


72 

“yesterday afternoon. She went away without 
leaving any address, and something has happened 
which makes it necessary for her friends to locate her 
at once, see?” 

The driver nodded his comprehension. 

“I want to be sure it’s the lady we’re looking for. 
It’s an apartment house, you know,” Peter explained, 
rapidly, “so perhaps you’ll describe her to us.” 

“Well,” said the driver, hesitatingly, “I don’t 
know as I can tell you so much what she looked like. 
She was dressed plain, in something dark, though 
blue or black or what, I couldn’t be so sure. She 
come hurrying along around the corner, but I was 
part way down the line, so I wasn’t much interested, 
though she did seem to be lookin’ for a taxi. She 
sorta gave the once-over to the two guys that was 
ahead of me, and then she stepped right up, quick, to 
my cab, and she says, lookin’ at me sharp through her 
veil, ‘Could you carry a heavy trunk down three 
flights of stairs by yourself?’ she says. It was kinda 
unexpected, ’cause they usually gets you to the place 
and then springs it. ‘I’ll make it worth your while 
if you can manage it alone,’ she says, flashing a five 
at me. ‘It’s this, over and above the fare,’ she says, 
kinda nervous and excited like. ‘You’re on, lady,’ 
I says. ‘Lead me to that trunk!’ I says, just like 
that. So she told me Ninety-nine Waverly Place, 
and I took her there and carried down the trunk, and, 
be gobs, it was heavy enough, and maybe worth the 
money at that.” 


WHAT THE CABMAN KNEW 


73 

Morris was listening eagerly to every word. He 
could keep silence no longer. 

“But the lady!” he said, excitedly. “Tell us 
more about her. Was she very tall and slender and 
beautiful?” 

Clancy touched his arm. He was afraid that the 
chauffeur, if given a clear description, would think 
he had seen what Morris so evidently wished him to 
have seen. 

“You describe her in your own way, Bill,” he in¬ 
terposed, addressing the driver, “but tell us every¬ 
thing you noticed about her. How about it, was she 
tall?” 

“How’d you know my name was Bill?” asked the 
driver, irrelevantly, with a grin, and without wait¬ 
ing for a reply, he went on, “I don’t think the lady 
was so very tall; at least not so you’d notice it par¬ 
ticular, but she was sorta thin, and she kinda stooped 
a little. She had on a thick veil, so I didn’t see her 
face hardly any when she come up to me on the 
street—only her eyes, and they was big and kinda 
—burning.” He hesitated a little. Evidently his 
powers of description were not often put to the 
test. 

“Well,” said Peter, as the man paused, “you went 
up to the apartment with her to get the trunk. I 
think you said you carried it down three flights of 
stairs. That would have made it the floor next to 
the top one, wouldn’t it?” 

“No,” said the cab driver, shaking his head, “it 


THE SINISTER MARK 


74 

was the top floor, and thankful I was there wasn’t 
any more of ’em.” 

“Did you see any one else in the apartment?” 
asked Peter, carefully restraining his impatience. 

“Not a soul,” answered the man, “and I don’t 
think there was anybody else there. It was awful 
quiet. I didn’t see anybody and I didn’t hear any¬ 
body moving around.” 

“Did you notice anything unusual about the apart¬ 
ment?” asked Peter. “Was it—what you’d call— 
tidy—when you were there?” 

“I don’t know,” said Bill, scratching his head. “I 
ain’t much of a hand at noticing things, I’m afraid. 
Places is apt to be a bit upset when people are going 
away. I didn’t think anything about that. I only 
just went into the back room to get the trunk— 

and-” A sudden thought seemed to strike him— 

“now I come to think of it, I did get just a little peek 
at the lady’s face as I was coming along the hall 
with the trunk on me back. She’d watched me 
strap it up, and then she went ahead of me into a 
room off the hall, toward the front. When I come 
along, she was standing over by the window, and 
there was a looking glass on the wall right in front 
of her. She’d just held up her veil to look for some¬ 
thing on the little table there was there, and I saw 
her in the glass, just for a second, before she pulled 
the veil down again.” He paused, and added, 
doubtfully, “Did the lady you was lookin’ for have 
a kind of a scar or something on her face, on 



WHAT THE CABMAN KNEW 


75 

—let’s see—on this side?” He touched his right 
cheek. 

Morris suppressed an exclamation, and Peter leaned 
still farther forward. 

“What kind of a scar, Bill?” he asked, quietly. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” answered the driver, 
hesitatingly. “The window was on the other side 
and I couldn’t see so very plain, but it seemed to me 
there was some kind of a dark red mark on her cheek 
and down on her neck. I can’t be sure, but I thought 
there was. I only saw it for a second. Does that 
help you any?” 

“H’m’m-” said Peter. “Maybe. Maybe it 

will, Bill. . . . And you’re pretty sure there 

wasn’t any one else in the apartment?” 

“Well,” said Bill, “I’ll leave it to you. I didn’t 
see nobody and I didn’t hear nobody, and when I 
took the trunk out, she was out on the stairs already, 
and she asked me to make sure the door was locked. 
And why would she be nervous about that, I asks 
you, if there was someone inside?” 

“Doesn’t seem reasonable, does it?” said Peter, 

thoughtfully. “But I don’t quite see-You say 

the lady was in the bedroom when you passed the 
door, but she was outside, on the stairs, when you took 
the trunk out. How was that?” 

“Why, I hadn’t got the trunk just right on me 
shoulders, and I stopped a second to shift it over. 
By the time I’d got it good, she’d come into the hall 
from the front end, and she didn’t waste no time 





THE SINISTER MARK 


76 

getting the door open for me. She seemed in an 
awful hurry and excited like. She went on down the 
stairs a few steps to be out of the way of me’n the 
trunk, and then she stopped on a sudden, and says, 
'Oh, I didn’t think! You can’t shut the door, can 
you?’ And me bein’ proud of me strength, says, 
'Sure I can,’and I backs around sidewise and starts to 
shut the door, and darned if there wasn’t a long trail 
of some kind of a lady’s white silk dingbat caught 
onto the bottom of the trunk and been draggin’ after 
me all the way down the hall, like a cat’s tail.” 

Peter, hearing Morris draw in a sharp breath, cast 
a warning glance in his direction. The cabman, 
unobserving, went on— 

" I thought I was going to have to get the lady back 
to pull it off and shut the door, but I give it a back 
kick and it landed free, and I shut the door by my 
own self. The lady was standin’ part way down the 
stairs, awful impatient to be off (I guess, maybe, she 
was late for her train), and she looks back and says, 
‘Try the door, if you will, please, and see that it’s 
fast.’ So I did, and I guess that’s about all, except 
that I took her and the trunk to the Penn. Station, 
and that’s the last I seen of her.” 

“The Penn. Station. Good-night!” muttered 
Peter, disgustedly. “You can go anywhere in the 
country, almost, from the Penn. Station.” Then, 
after an instant’s thought, he said aloud: “That 
was funny, what you said about the white silk 
thing following you along the hall like a cat’s tail, 



WHAT THE CABMAN KNEW 77 

Bill. Where do you suppose you picked the thing 
up?” 

“Must have come from the storeroom where the 
trunk was,” said Bill, readily. “Otherwise Td V 
seen it before I got to the door, if it’d been layin’ on 
the floor of the hall, I mean. Must have been be¬ 
hind the trunk, too, down in the corner, where it was 
dark.” 

“Are you sure it fell entirely inside the door when 
you kicked it loose?” asked Peter. “Try to remem¬ 
ber, Bill. I have a particular reason for wanting to 
know.” 

The man looked at him curiously, but replied at 
once— 

“Why, it must have, I should think, but I can’t 
be exactly sure. To tell you the truth,” with a note 
of apology, “I didn’t care so much where it went, 
s’long as it didn’t trail along and make me ridiculous, 
and I didn’t look so very careful. The trunk was 
bearin’ down on me shoulders, and the lady was in a 
hurry.” 

“Yes,” said Peter, absently, thoughtfully, and 
added, “How far down the stairs was the lady when 
you shut the door, Bill? Two or three steps, or 
more? Was she far enough up, I mean, to see the 
scarf drop?” 

“No, she wasn’t. I’m sure.” This time the 
driver answered with certainty: “She was half way 
down the first flight anyway, and me just able to see 
her head over the rail.” 


THE SINISTER MARK 


78 

“H’m—yes/' said Peter, slowly. “Yes/’ 

He considered for a moment in silence. Then he 
turned to Morris. 

“Anything more you can think of that Bill might 
be able to tell us, Mr. Morris?” he asked. 

Morris shook his head, despondingly. 

“All right then, Bill,” said Clancy. “You’ve 
given us quite a lot to think about, anyway, and we’re 
much obliged to you. Just give me your name and 
address, will you, in case anything should turn up 
that we needed you again,” and having entered the 
direction in his notebook, he added, “Now beat it 
over to the Penn. Station and show us where you left 
the lady.” 

“And this is for yourself,” said Donald, leaning 
quickly forward and slipping a bill into the man’s 
hand. 

The crisp slip of green-engraved paper must have 
been more effective than the most advertised pure 
gasoline and motor oil, for no cab of its size and con¬ 
dition had ever made better time than Bill’s cab did 
in getting to its destination. It was only a matter of 
moments when they were gliding down the long in¬ 
cline to the station. 

“This is where I left her,” said Bill, as the cab, 
panting like an animal, with the haste it had made, 
stopped opposite the express windows, the lights of 
which showed yellow against the outer sunshine and 
the blue of the gas vapours which strove to escape 
from between the tall pillars of the carriage entrance. 


WHAT THE CABMAN KNEW 79 

The two young men leaped out of the cab and while 
Morris was paying the man off, Peter asked, in a low 
tone, 

“ Did you see where the lady went when she got out 
of the cab, Bill ? 

“No,” the man answered, straightening his leg to 
shove the money Morris had just given him into his 
trousers pocket. “She paid me as we were runnin’ 
down, and as soon as a couple of guys had jerked the 
trunk off, I beat it.” 

“Well—all right, Bill,” said Peter. “So long,” 
and with a friendly wave of the hand, the cabman, 
realizing that the curiosity which he felt would prob¬ 
ably never be satisfied, proceeded on his way, while 
the young detective, followed by Donald Morris, be¬ 
gan his investigations. 

He made searching inquiries at every ticket window 
in the great, softly echoing main room of the station 
and at the express offices. He even went down to 
the waiting room of the Long Island Railroad and 
enquired there at all the possible places. No one 
remembered seeing, on the previous evening, a lady 
answering the meagre description Peter was able to 
give. Her costume was, obviously, conventional, 
and with her veil down, there had been nothing about 
her to attract attention. 

Among the hundreds of people passing every hour 
through the vast station Anne Blake also had passed, 
leaving no trace. 


CHAPTER X 
A Big Trunk 

TVUT Mary!” groaned Donald Morris in agony, as 
-*-*jthe two men, their unsuccessful investigation 
over, stood for a moment in the vast loneliness of the 
great station. “I don’t mind so much that we’ve 
lost all trace of her sister. It’s Mary, Mary that I’m 
thinking about. Where has she gone? What has 
happened to her?” The fearful tension of the morn¬ 
ing was apparent in every line of his weary white 
face. “Let Anne go! She’s nothing to me! But 
find Mary, Clancy! Find Mary! Put every ounce 
of strength you have, every resource of your organi¬ 
zation on it. Spend any amount of money. Leave 
no stone unturned. I’m afraid—I’m horribly afraid. 
She’s-” 

Clancy put a restraining hand on his arm, and even 
while he spoke he was wondering if the same sinister 
idea which was creeping into his own thoughts had 
already, by any possibility, found a place in Morris’s 
less experienced mind. It was hardly probable, 
Peter comforted himself with the thought. A thing 
so far outside the experience of the young sculptor 
would scarcely suggest itself. And if it did, it would 
be necessary to combat it as long as possible, for in 

80 



A BIG TRUNK 81 

\ 

that direction, Peter was sure, would lie madness for 
Donald Morris. 

“We’ll get on the job at once, Mr. Morris,” he 
said, promptly, reassuringly. “We’ll search the city 
over to find any trace of her. She didn’t leave the 
apartment with her sister. We know that much, 
anyway. If she took another cab-” 

“She’s almost certain to have done that,” Donald 
interrupted, eagerly. “She hated to walk through 
the streets, even for a short distance, and all the rail¬ 
road stations are a long way from Waverly Place.” 

“Well, if she took a cab, we’ll find it,” declared 
Peter, confidently. “But it may take a little time. 
I’ll have to go to the office now, and get things 
started. You can’t be any help about this part, and 
I’d advise you to get a rest. You aren’t used to this 
kind of thing, and it’s bound to knock you up. Go 
home and take it easy. I’ll ’phone you if there’s any 
news or if there’s anything you can do. Let’s get a 
cab, and I can drop you at your house on my way to 
the office. There are a few things I’d like to have you 
tell me, and that way we won’t waste any time. 
How about it ?” 

“All right,” answered Morris, wearily. “But I 
wish you’d let me go with you. Somehow I feel-” 

“Yes, I guess I know how you feel, all right,” said 
Peter, “but it won’t be any good. You can’t help, 
and you need to get quieted down. Come on.” 

With sympathetic consideration he led Donald to 
a cab, selecting one which had the front windows 




82 


THE SINISTER MARK 


closed, so that they might talk in privacy. As they 
turned into Seventh Avenue he said: 

“Now tell me everything you know about Miss 
Blake and her sister. Every little thing. You can 
never tell what might come in useful. How long 
have you known them?” 

“As you know, I’ve never met her sister, and know 
nothing at all about her, except that they lived to¬ 
gether, and I’ve always had the impression that 
there was something—I don’t know just how to put 
it—something—well—wrong—about the sister,” said 
Donald, slowly. “Mary never let me come up to the 
apartment, and there was something odd in her face 
whenever her sister was mentioned. Of course it 
happened but rarely—and it’s a hard thing to define. 
Perhaps a person less interested would scarcely have 
noticed-” 

Donald relapsed into thought. After a moment 
Peter said: 

“And when was it that you first met Miss Blake?” 

“About a year or so ago, it was,” said Morris, 
rousing himself, his eyes kindling. “I’ll never for¬ 
get it! It was at my sister’s. I’d heard a lot about 
Mary Blake, and had seen her several times on the 
stage, of course. She seemed to me, even then, to be 
the most beautiful woman and the greatest actress of 
our time. My sister, Mrs. Atterbury, prides herself 
on knowing all the literary and artistic people, all the 
eminent musicians and actors in town. It’s almost a 
mild form of mania with her. And most of them re- 




A BIG TRUNK 


83 

spond readily/’ with a little shrug, “but for a long 
time she couldn’t reach Mary Blake, and the fact 
piqued her more than a little. Miss Blake’s former 
manager, Arthur Quinn, guarded her like a dragon. 
It was amusing to see Helena—my sister—trying to 
cajole old Quinn, whom she knew well, into introduc¬ 
ing her. It simply couldn’t be done. But when 
poor Quinn died, and it was known that Miss Blake 
had signed up with Frederick Jones, Helena started 
to work on him. Jones, it seems, has social ambi¬ 
tions, and whether it was that, or what it was, my 
sister induced him to let her go behind the scenes one 
night and meet Miss Blake. Helena has a way with 
her, I must say, and somehow she prevailed on Mary 
to give a reading at the house, a thing she’d never 
done before, and has never done since. I don’t 
know,” he broke off, “why I’m telling you all these 
details, Clancy, only you said-” 

“Go on, don’t skip anything,” said Peter, en¬ 
couragingly. “So the first time you met Miss Blake 
was at the reading at your sister’s house?” 

“Yes, and, oh, it was wonderful, marvellous!” 
He spoke slowly, with the air of one who lives again 
one of the greatest moments of his life. “They used 
the big model platform at one end of my studio for a 
stage. The room, of course, was dark, and when the 
curtains were drawn aside, she stood there in the dim 
blue light, her face a pale oval, shining faintly, like a 
star.” He had forgotten Peter. All his mind was 
filled with a poignant remembrance. “She spoke—• 




84 THE SINISTER MARK 

and it was as if the stars sang together. ... It 
didn’t matter what she said. . . . The sheer 

magnetism of her personality, the beauty of the soul 
which looked out of her eyes—so near, so near—drew 
like cords of steel. . . . Her strange, sad face 

seemed, somehow, oddly familiar ... as if I’d 
seen it before ... in a dream, perhaps. 

It-” 

The cab came to a sudden stop at a point of con¬ 
gested traffic. The change from the detachment 
and quiet of its smooth forward motion to the con¬ 
fusion and roar of the busy crossing brought Donald, 
with a jerk, back to himself. He glanced at Clancy 
a trifle confusedly, and as the cab went on, took up 
his story in a more normal tone. 

“Everybody wanted to be presented to her after 
the performance was over, but she would meet no one 
except the family, Francis Atterbury and myself. 
She received us, for a few moments, on the stage, after 
the curtains had been drawn. She was gracious and 
charming, but insisted on leaving at once. She had 
told Helena that it would be necessary for her to do 
this, that she was very tired. She allowed me to 
take her down to her cab, and I said ‘Good-night’ to 
her in the dark street. . . . The next night I 

went to the theatre and sent my card to her, between 
the acts. She let me come behind the scenes, and I 
talked to her a few minutes in the wings. . . 

After that I saw her with increasing frequency. We 
dined together rather often, in some quiet place. 




A BIG TRUNK 


85 

The thought of attracting any attention to herself, 
when she was off-stage, was most distasteful to her— 
amounting almost to an obsession. That’s a strong 
word, perhaps, but it almost seemed like that. She 
lived very quietly, and never introduced me to any of 
her friends. I don’t even know who her friends are. 
I know absolutely nothing of her past life, except that 
it was a very unhappy one. I could not force her 
confidence and she volunteered nothing, not even 
when she must have known—must have seen-” 

He hesitated, and Peter met his look with a slight, 
comprehending nod. 

“I understand, Mr. Morris,” he said, gravely. 
“ But didn’t you think it was strange, don’t you think 
it was strange now?” 

“Yes,” Donald admitted. “But it doesn’t mat¬ 
ter. I don’t care how strange it all is. I don’t care 
who she is, or who her people were, or what sad or 
even terrible thing she is keeping from me. She is 
beautiful to me—in body, mind, and soul—a wonder- 
woman ! There is no one like her in all the world, and 
I ask nothing of God but to give her back to me. I 
can trust her. I can be content to know nothing. 
. . . Only find her for me, Clancy! Find her for 

me!” He clenched his hands and his eyes burned 
deep. 

Peter turned away his face. 

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Morris,” he said with grave 
sincerity. “What’s possible to do, I pledge my word 
shall be done. By the way,” he added, in a changed 




86 THE SINISTER MARK 

tone, “do you know Miss Blake’s manager person¬ 
ally?” 

“Frederick Jones? Yes,” answered Morris, 
quickly. “I’ve met him often.” 

“He’d be willing to do you a favour, perhaps?” 

“Yes—yes, I think he would.” 

“I may want to have a little talk with him,” said 
Peter, reflectively. “Think you could fix it?” 

“I’ll give you a card,” said Donald, at once, and 
drawing a case from his pocket, he wrote a few lines 
and handed the card to Peter. 

“That ought to do it,” said Peter, glancing at it. 
“Thanks. I may not use it, but it’s best to be pre¬ 
pared.” 

They had turned into Gramercy Park. The cab 
drew up before the broad entrance of Mrs. Atter- 
bury’s house, and Donald Morris stepped out. 

“I’m trusting you, Clancy,” he said, as he held 
out his hand, “with something that is more important 
than life to me.” 

“I know,” Peter nodded as he grasped the out¬ 
stretched hand with a firm pressure. “I’ll do my 
best,” he repeated, reassuringly. 

He sighed, however, as the cab rolled swiftly 
through the busy streets. 

“Nobody’s best is any too good in a case like this,” 
he thought to himself. “He’s a fine chap, all right, 
is Morris. I hope she’s what he thinks her, and then 
some. . . . Wonder what kind of a woman she 

really is. He looks as if he might be a judge, but you 


A BIG TRUNK 


87 

never can tell. . . . What is it she’s been hiding 

from him—from everybody . . . except one 

person. ... A woman as successful as she is 
wouldn’t live the way she’s been living, unless there 
was something. . . . And the sister? Dammit 

all, I can’t see-” 

He was still cogitating thus when he reached his 
office. He was thankful to find that his partner and 
old friend, Captain O’Malley, was in and at liberty. 
It was always a help, a clearance of his mind, to talk 
over a case with the astute, experienced old man who 
had trained him when he was a cub in the police 
detective service, and with whom he had been as¬ 
sociated ever since. 

The old man listened attentively while Peter de¬ 
tailed the facts as they had been presented to his 
notice. 

“It looked like robbery,” Peter said, in conclusion, 
“but, I ask you, wasn’t it intended that it should 
look like robbery, maybe? At least, isn’t that on the 
cards ? That broken window on the fire-escape was a 
blind. I’m sure of that much. I didn’t mention it 
to Morris—thought he had enough on his mind as it 
was—but not only was the broken glass all on the out¬ 
side window-sill, but the catch hadn’t even been 
turned. Whoever broke the glass wasn’t very fly, 
or else they got scared, for they didn’t unlock the 
window.” 

“Or else the thief stopped and locked it after he got 
outside,” said O’Malley, with a little chuckle. 



88 THE SINISTER MARK 

p k 

“Rats!” exclaimed Peter, feelingly. “Quit your 
kiddin’, O’Malley. Don’t joke. This is serious. 
Both these women are missing, and there’s blood in 
the apartment and on Miss Blake’s scarf. We only 
know how one of ’em left the place. She left alone 
. . . with a big trunk. ... It was a big 

trunk, O’Malley. I could tell by the marks it had 
made on the wall of the storeroom, and by the place 
where there wasn’t any dust at all on the floor. It 
was all pretty clean, but you just could see where 
the trunk had stood. . . . And then, here’s 

another funny thing—the closets in the bedroom were 
all full of beautiful clothes, the sort you’d expect 
Mary Blake to wear, and the bureau was, or had 
been, full of fine, expensive lingerie, before somebody 
chucked ’em around the place. Now, I figure Anne 
kept her clothes in the storeroom—and there wasn’t 
a rag there—nothing but a few almost worn-out 
things in an otherwise empty chiffonier.” 

“And you argue from that-” said O’Malley. 

“I’m not arguing,” said Peter. “I’m only think¬ 
ing. It looked to me as if Anne had taken all her 
clothes (though there probably weren’t so many, 
judging by the number of hangers and the size of the 
chiffonier) and that Mary hadn’t taken anything. 

. . . Of course it’s only a guess. I can’t be sure. 

But that’s the way it looked. . . . And how, 

would Mary get along without clothes—unless she 
might have been going to use Anne’s? . . . But 

they didn’t go away together . . . Morris has 



A BIG TRUNK 89 

the idea—and I got it myself from the letter he 
showed me—that there was a sort of-—a kind of 
antipathy between them. Oh, hell, O’Malley! You 
see what I’m driving at—I’ve been mixed up with 
so much crime and stuff that I can’t help won¬ 
dering-” 

“Yes,” said O’Malley, slowly. “Yes, I see. . . . 
The bloody scarf that the cabby pulled through 
the door . . . the blood on the floor of the 

hall just by the trunk-room . . . the big trunk. 

H f y >> 

m m- 

The two detectives looked at each other long and 
seriously. Then Clancy brought his closed fist down 
on the desk. 

“It’s Anne—it’s Anne I want to find, O’Malley! 
We’ll look for Mary for all we’re worth. We won’t 
leave a stone unturned, as I promised. But if you 
ask me what we must do to get to the bottom of this 
proposition, I say—find Anne Blake!” 


1 




CHAPTER XI 
Four Photographs 

VT^ES. Find Anne Blake,” O’Malley repeated, 
A slowly. “But, in the meantime, son, you’d 
have to establish a motive, and it’d have to be some 
little motive, at that! And after all, you know, Miss 
Mary may turn up at any time. It would be easy 
enough for her to make a get-away and nobody see 
her. Suppose she slipped quietly out into the street 
and picked up a cab on the Avenue or somewhere? 
How’d we find that cab, I ask you? We don’t know 
where she was going, and there wouldn’t be anything 
to spot her by but a description or a photograph, if 
you can get hold of one.” 

“I can do that easy enough,” said Peter. “Morris 
gave me a card to her manager and I can get one from 
him. I’m going to see him right away and find out 
what he knows about Mary Blake. He’s the only 
person, so far, that can give me a straight line on 
her.” He reached for the telephone and instructed 
the operator in the outer office to get Mr. Frederick 
Jones of the Westmoreland Theatre on the wire. 
While waiting for the connection, he continued his 
talk with his partner. 

“Get out the drag-net for those two girls, O’Mai- 


90 


FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS 


9 i 

ley. Spread it all over the country and up into 
Canada. Comb the city with a fine-tooth comb. 
If Mary really hadn’t any luggage, it’s on the cards 
that she may not have left town. But,” he shook 
his head thoughtfully, “I’ve got a hunch, O’Malley, 
that we won’t find Mary Blake. The letter said, 
‘There’ll be no one left but Anne. . . .’ What¬ 
ever was to happen has happened . . . and I 

think—I can’t explain it, but I feel it in my bones— 
that our only hope is to find Anne.” 

The telephone, at his elbow, buzzed sharply. 

“Mr. Jones is very busy,” Peter’s operator in¬ 
formed him. “Can his secretary take a message?” 

“Yes,” Peter replied. “Let me have the secre- 
tary. 

The connection made, Peter was informed that it 
would be impossible to see Mr. Jones that afternoon, 
and it was only by using Donald Morris’s name that 
he was able to make an appointment for the following 
morning at eleven o’clock. 

On Tuesday, therefore, prompt to the minute, 
Peter presented himself to the dragon (in the shape of 
a bobbed and powdered switchboard operator) who 
guarded the entrance to the offices of the Westmore¬ 
land Theatre Building. He had to assure her that 
he was not an actor out of work, and present his 
credentials, and it was not until his statement that he 
had an appointment had been verified that he was 
allowed to climb the three flights of stairs to the office 
of Frederick Jones, Manager. Even here he was 


92 THE SINISTER MARK 

subjected to a maddening delay before he could gain 
audience. 

When he reached Mr. Jones at last, however, he 
found him genial and cordial enough. The few lines 
which Donald Morris had written on his card turned 
the trick, and Mr. Jones expressed himself delighted 
to be of service. 

Peter had had plenty of time to go over carefully 
his line of attack. He regretted the necessity, as he 
would have expressed it, “of putting any one wise,” 
but, on the other hand, he felt confident that Mr. 
Frederick Jones must be well aware of Donald 
Morris’s interest in Miss Blake. He was also sure 
that her disappearance would come to the knowledge 
of her manager in short order. He, therefore, went 
straight to the bat. 

“I want to talk to you about Miss Mary Blake,” 
he said. Leaning his elbow on the desk, with chin 
in hand, he regarded the manager keenly. 

“What about Mary Blake?” Jones questioned, 
sharply. 

“She’s disappeared,” answered Peter, without 
emphasis. 

“What!” The manager started to his feet. 

“She’s disappeared from her apartment and left no 
address,” Peter explained, quietly. 

“Good God!” cried the manager, leaning over and 
beating his clenched fist on the desk. “ Do you know 
what you’re saying? But, of course, it can’t be! 
Why, she was going to be in town all summer, and 


FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS 


93 

we start rehearsal on a new play the middle of July! 
‘Dark Roads’ ended its run last Saturday night. 
She must have gone off for the week-end somewhere. 
You’re just trying to get a rise out of me!” 

“I’m not,” said Peter, gravely. “She’s gone away 
for some time, and under peculiar conditions. So 
far, we haven’t been able to find any trace of her. 
If you think I’m kidding you, you can call up Mr. 
Morris and ask him. He found out, accidentally, 
that she’d gone away, and he thought it was so 
serious that he called me in. I’m a detective,” and 
Peter presented his business card. 

The manager looked at it and dropped heavily into 
his chair. 

“This is bad news for me, Mr. Clancy,” he said. 
“Damn bad news. She’s worth twenty-five to fifty 
thousand a year to me, I don’t mind telling you, and 
if anything has happened to her—if she’s gone off her 
nut—or anything—she’s a strange sort of girl-” 

“How, ‘strange’?” interrupted Peter, his eyes 
narrowing. 

“Well—she’s the greatest emotional actress in the 
world to-day. You can take it from me. And I said 
it to Arthur Quinn, many and many a time, when 
he was alive. She can take the heart out of your 
body and wring it like a wet sponge. She’s beautiful, 
and clever as the devil—but, like most tempera¬ 
mental people, she has her own peculiarities. And 
sometimes they were a bit hard to deal with.” 

“For instance?” prompted Peter. 



94 


THE SINISTER MARK 

‘‘Well, for instance—she’d never rehearse with¬ 
out a full costume and make-up, and the lights 
just as they would be at performance. Said she 
couldn’t feel the part unless the conditions were 
all the way they were going to be. It made it 
necessary to get her costumes ready before we 
started rehearsal, and sometimes it was a damn 
nuisance.” 

“But it doesn’t strike me that there was anything 
very unreasonable about that,” objected Peter. 
“Might be a bit unusual, but-” 

“Oh, that wasn’t the only thing,” Jones broke in. 
“I couldn’t get her to meet anybody, not even people 
who would be useful to her. She would see a few 
newspaper men, but only in the theatre, between the 
acts. She objected to being photographed, too, and 
I had the devil and all of a time getting the right kind 
of publicity for her.” 

“But you have some photographs,” said Peter, 
eagerly. “Surely there are some to be had. That’s 
what I want particularly.” 

“Oh, yes,” grudgingly, “we’ve got some that were 
taken a year or two ago. Quinn didn’t seem to have 
so much trouble with her. He got a lot, and they are 
beauties, and good enough to use. She hasn’t 
changed any since they were taken. But people like 
to see new ones.” 

“Can you spare me some?” asked Peter. “I 
can’t get very far without ’em, you can see that for 
yourself.” 



FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS 95 

“Oh, sure,” answered Jones, readily. “You bet 
I’ll do anything I can to help you.” 

He touched a button on his desk and instructed 
the sleek youth who immediately appeared to bring 
him the photographs of Miss Blake. They were 
speedily produced, and Peter gazed at them with deep 
interest. There were four different poses, two full 
length, in evening dress, one of the head in profile, 
and one full face. 

It was the latter which interested Peter the most. 
It was a striking portrait. The brilliant light, falling 
from above upon one side of the face, left the eyes in 
a transparent shadow, out of which they looked with 
a burning, compelling intensity. Haunting, mag¬ 
netic eyes they were, full of dramatic possibilities. 
The nose was short and straight, with rather full 
nostrils, expressive of temperament and passion. 
The mouth was sensitive, not too small, and exquisite 
in its subtle lines and curves. The contours of the 
face were fine and beautifully modelled, the cheek¬ 
bones and chin delicately defined. There was a 
nervous sensibility in the face, a tension and unrest 
about the pose of the head upon the slender, gracious 
neck and shoulders, which suggested an intense, ar¬ 
tistic temperament. 

“Great, aren’t they?” said Jones, looking at them 
as they lay on the desk between the two men. 
“Wonder what club old Quinn held over her to make 
her sit for ’em?” 

“She and Quinn were great friends, weren’t they?” 


96 THE SINISTER MARK 

asked Peter. “Do you know where he picked her 
up: 

Jones shook his head. 

“Haven’t the faintest idea. He had a way of 
snatching ’em out of the atmosphere, had Arthur 
Quinn, and he was tight as a drum about ’em all. 
Nobody had ever heard of her, so far as I know, and 
I know every possible bet, from the Keith Circuit up. 
My business. Quinn sprung her in the title role of 
‘Constance’ the first shot out of the box. Don’t 
know where she got her training, but she had it all 
right, all right, and then some. She never missed 
a trick, and she was a success from the drop of the 
hat. Of course Quinn was a wonder at putting ’em 
through a course of sprouts, but the girl appeared on 
the first night as if she’d been acting since she was a 
baby. Maybe they’re born that way sometimes, but 
I never ran across one that was.” 

“I suppose she made a lot of money,” hazarded 
Peter, following a train of thought of his own. 

“Oh, lord, yes,” agreed Jones. “I don’t mind 
telling you in confidence, Mr. Clancy, that I paid 
her, on my last year’s contract, a cool thousand a 
week.” 

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Peter. “As much as 
that?” 

“I sure did,” said the manager. “Why, look here. 
I guess I can show you.” 

He drew toward him a bank book, stuffed with 
vouchers, which lay upon the desk. Running rapidly 


FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS 


97 

through the cancelled checks, he selected several and 
slid them across the polished mahogany to Peter. 

“Just came in from the bank. End of the month, ” 
he explained. “Run your eye over those if you 
don’t believe me.” 

Peter did run his eye over them and very carefully. 
They were all made out to the order of Mary Blake 
and for one thousand dollars. He turned them over 
and studied the endorsements. They were all alike. 
At the top, in a clear, slanting, characteristic hand 
was written “ Pay to the order of the Scoville Bank— 
Mary Blake,’’ and at the bottom, rubber-stamped, 
were the words, “Pay to the order of the Federal 
Reserve Bank of New York,” the date, and “The 

Scoville Bank of New York, William Dunne, Cash- 

• >» 
ler. 

“I think I’ll make a call on Mr. William Dunne, 
Cashier,” thought Peter, still following an insistent 
undercurrent of suggestion, as he made a mental note 
of the name of the bank. “ It might be of interest to 
know how much of this corking good salary she’s 
saved—and whether she—or any one else—has drawn 
heavily against it lately.” Aloud he said— 

“That’s a lot of money, Mr. Jones! I didn’t know 
they got anything like that. I can see I made the 
mistake of my life when I picked my profession. 
Think you could get me a job?” 

A slight grin made its way through the trouble and 
concern on the manager’s face. 

“Better stick to your own job, Mr. Clancy,” he 





THE SINISTER MARK 


98 

said. “There aren’t so many who make what Miss 
Blake does, believe me!” 

Peter had gathered up the photographs and risen 
to his feet. Jones, following his example, caught his 
arm as he approached the door. 

“For God’s sake, keep me posted, Mr. Clancy,’’ 
he said, anxiously. “I can’t think she’s thrown me 
down. Why, only about a month ago she had a 
pippin of an offer from a movie concern; far and away 
over anything I could afford to give her, though she 
does net me a lot. And do you think she’d consider 
it? Not on your life. She turned it down cold.” 

“What reason did she give?” asked Peter, curi¬ 
ously. 

“Didn’t give any, to me at least. I didn’t know 
anything about it until Wolf, the producer, who’s an 
old friend of mine, congratulated me on her sticking 
to me so tight. So, you see, I can’t believe she’s 
double-crossed me, and it’s a pretty safe bet that I’ll 
hear from her soon. If I do, I’ll let you or Mr. Morris 
know.” 

“Yes, do, by all means,” said Peter. “I’ll keep in 
touch with you, and for the love of Mike, don’t let 
the story leak out. I’m sure I can trust to your 
discretion, Mr. Jones.” 

“Oh, sure. Sure you can,” promised the manager, 
easily. “It certainly wouldn’t be to my interest to 
have it known—at least for the present.” 

Peter did not like that last phrase very much, but 
he did not dare to place in jeopardy his present 


FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS 


99 

friendly relation with Jones by taking it up. He 
contented himself, therefore, with a smiling injunc¬ 
tion to “keep it under his hat,” and added: 

“By the way, Mr. Jones, is there anybody else— 
anybody you know of that Miss Blake might be likely 
to write to?” 

“I don’t think there is a soul,” answered the man¬ 
ager, frowning. “She had nothing to do with any 
member of the company; pretty up-stage with all of 
’em, though not offensive about it exactly. Just 
kept ’em all at a distance—same as she did me, to tell 
you the truth. As I told you, she’d never meet any¬ 
body I asked her to—except Mrs. Atterbury, and I 
nearly dropped dead when she asked me if it would be 
O. K. for her to give a reading there. I was tickled 
to death, of course. Great ad. for her; but she never 
followed it up. Just like her,” he grumbled. 
“Other than letting Morris take her around a little 
she let the whole thing slide.” 

“Had no social ambitions, evidently,” Peter re¬ 
marked. “And you never met any friends of hers?” 

“Not a soul.” 

“Strange,” Peter said. And again, to himself, as 
he hurried from the manager’s office, he repeated, 
“Strange—so beautiful, so successful, and so alone. 
Why? . . . There was her sister, and there was 

Donald Morris and the manager. . . . And be¬ 

sides them, nobody—nobody but Angelo, and he’d 
only just seen her, as he couldn’t help seeing her 
. . . And an old lady, a stout old lady, who called 


> 

■> 


) 


> 





IOO 


THE SINISTER MARK 


there. . . . And the voice over the wire. 

It was an odd voice—unusual—I’m sure I’d know it 
again, anywhere. . . . And, by gad, I’d give a 

hundred dollars to know who was the owner of that 
voice over the wire.” 



CHAPTER XII 
A Signature Card 

T)ETER looked at his watch as he ran down the 
stairs of the Westmoreland Theatre Building. 
It was nearly one o’clock, and he decided that he 
would have time enough to snatch a bit of lunch be¬ 
fore he made the attempt to see Mr. Walter Dunne, 
of the Scoville Bank. He stopped in at a public tele¬ 
phone booth in a cigar store, and called Donald 
Morris and O’Malley. To the one he reported what 
slight progress he had made, and from the other he 
received the information that he, O’Malley, had been 
down to the apartment and seen the janitor and that 
there was nothing new there. No one had called to 
see either of the sisters and no word of any kind had 
been received from them. 

“Get the photographs down here as quick as you 
can,” O’Malley urged. “I’ve wired our correspond¬ 
ents all over the country, but you know, Pete, they 
can’t do such a hell of a lot without the pictures, and 
neither can the boys here.” 

“Send Maggie over to the Fifth Avenue Bank,” 
said Peter, quickly. “I’ve got to go there, anyway. 
Have her meet me in half an hour and I’ll give her the 
photographs. You can get them copied, p. d. q., 


IOI 


102 


THE SINISTER MARK 


and broadcast ’em all over the map, see. Tell her to 
meet me in twenty minutes, I can make it by then.” 

Hastily he hung up the receiver, snatched a sand¬ 
wich and a glass of milk at a near-by drug store, met 
Maggie, his switch-board operator, at the Fifth 
Avenue Bank and delivered the photographs to her 
with instructions to rush them back to the office. 

“Holy cats!” said Maggie, pensively, as she looked 
at the pictures of Mary Blake. “Ain’t she sweet!” 

“Never mind whether she’s sweet or not, Maggie,” 
said Clancy, hastily. “Put ’em in your bag, and 
don’t lose ’em. Chase yourself back to the office just 

as fast as you can, there’s a good girl- And for 

the love of Mike, stop chewing that gum. You make 
me nervous! How many times have I told you-” 

“But I ain’t in the office now, Mr. Clancy. It’s 
me lunch hour and me time’s me own and me tastes 
is me own. If you don’t like-” 

“There, there, Maggie. Never mind,” said 
Clancy, soothingly. “I didn’t mean anything; but 
if there’s one thing more than another that spoils a 
pretty girl, it’s that infernal chew, chew, chew! It 
gets on my nerves.” 

Mollified by the subtle compliment, Maggie blew 
the offending gum nonchalantly into the gutter. 
“ ’S all right, Mr. Clancy,” she said, and with a wide 
smile she flappered rapidly away. 

Peter’s errand at the Fifth Avenue Bank, where he 
and his partner kept their modest but reliable ac¬ 
count, was to get a note, accrediting him to the cash- 





A SIGNATURE CARD 


103 

ier of the Scoville Bank. The reputation of the firm 
of Clancy and O’Malley was above question, and the 
note was easily forthcoming. 

Armed with this, Peter proceeded at once to the 
Scoville Bank and was readily admitted to an inter¬ 
view with the cashier. 

Mr. William Dunne proved to be a pleasant young 
man of about Peter’s own age, who looked attentively 
at the detective’s business card, and asked him to 
state wherein he, the cashier, could be of service. 

“I want to find out a few things about one of your 
depositors,” said Peter, proceeding at once to busi¬ 
ness. “ Anything you tell me will be treated in the 
strictest confidence, and I’m sure the questions I want 
to ask you can answer without any trouble. It’s 
about Miss Mary Blake.” 

“H’m’m-” said the cashier. “Miss Blake, the 

actress? Yes. She has an account here. Been 
running up bills somewhere?” with a slight grin. 

“Nothing of the sort,” said Peter, readily, “though 
it may turn out to be a more serious matter than that. 
At any rate, it isn’t anything against the lady. It’s 
in her interests that I’m here.” 

“Why don’t you ask her the questions you want to. 
put to me, then?” asked Dunne, shrewdly. 

“Because she’s out of town and the matter is ur¬ 
gent,” explained Peter, imperturbably. 

The cashier hesitated. 

“Of course I’d be glad to help you out in any way, 
Mr. Clancy,” he said, doubtfully, “but the relations 



io 4 THE SINISTER MARK 

of the bank to its clients are very confidential. We 
have to be very careful about disclosing anything 
of their private affairs. You know how you’d feel, 
yourself. We have to be very certain that we’re not 
doing anything prejudicial to their interests.” 

Peter saw that it was necessary for him to be very 
frank if he were to gam the information he desired 
from this conscientious and astute young man. He, 
therefore, returned the cashier’s questioning glance 
with an open, candid smile. 

“I’m perfectly aware, Mr. Dunne,” he said, “that 
all good banks protect their depositors’ interests to 
the limit, so I’ll just put my cards on the table. Miss 
Blake has disappeared, and her sister also, under 
most peculiar conditions, and I have been employed 
to trv to trace them. I was summoned to their 
apartment by Mr. Donald Morris.” 

“Stephen Morris’s son?” asked the cashier, 
quickly. 

“Yes,” said Peter, and seeing that the well-known 
name had its effect, he added, “Perhaps you'd like 
me to get him on the wire, and assure you that-” 

“I don’t like to seem to doubt you in any way, Mr. 
Clancy,” the cashier interrupted. “I’d be very glad 
to be of service to any friend of Mr. Morris’s. He 
has an account here. Suppose I get him on the 
wire. 

This suited Peter perfectly. Knowing that Morris 
would be at home, waiting for news, he realized that 
there would be little delay, and waited imperturb- 



A SIGNATURE CARD 


io 5 

ably while the cashier verified his statements. In a 
few minutes Dunne turned away from the telephone. 

“So far, so good, Mr. Clancy,” he said, smiling. 
“Now bring on your problem.” 

“Well, this is the way it stands,” said Peter, with 
an answering smile. “It looks as if Miss Blake’s 
apartment has been robbed. Of course we can’t be 
sure, because we don’t know what was there origi¬ 
nally, but things were tossed about a lot, bureau 
drawers and desk drawers opened, and that sort of 
thing. And both the sisters have disappeared.” 

“All right. I get that,” said the cashier. “Now 
what do you need to know about them?” 

“First of all, do you know Miss Blake by sight?” 
asked Peter. 

“H’m’m—I’ve seen her on the stage, yes. But I 
don’t recollect ever having seen her in the bank 
here.” 

“Perhaps one of the tellers-” 

“One of them might have, of course, but I doubt it. 
You see, I was paying teller, myself, up to a month 
ago, and as far as I can remember, it was always Miss 
Anne Blake who came to the bank.” 

“You know her, then, by sight,” said Peter, 
eagerly. 

“Oh, yes. She comes in almost every week. 
Quiet, retiring sort of woman, with a bad birth¬ 
mark.” 

Peter nodded. 

“When was she here last, Mr. Dunne? Do you 



106 THE SINISTER MARK 

think you could find out for me? Would the tellers 
know her?” 

“Think they would. In fact, I’m sure Parsons 
knows her. He was my assistant and is paying now. 
Til ask him. Just a moment.” 

He left his desk, and went through a glass door at 
the back of the metal-latticed cages. Peter could see 
him, through the grille, talking to first one man and 
then another. Presently he came back. 

“Miss Anne Blake was in the bank and cashed a 
check on Saturday morning,” he informed Peter. 

“On Saturday morning,” Peter repeated, thought¬ 
fully. “Do you know how much she drew?” 

“I do,” said the cashier, with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Would you mind telling me, in strict confidence, 
the amount of the check?” asked Peter, persuasively. 
“I promise you, on my word of honour, that it’ll go 
no further. You can see for yourself that, if there 
was a robbery, it’s important for us to know whether 
there was any large sum of money in the house.” 

“I see,” said the cashier, thoughtfully. “Well, I 
don’t think there’s any harm in telling you. The 
Fifth Avenue vouches for you, and Mr. Morris does, 
too. No. There can’t be any harm. It was a check 
for five thousand dollars.” 

Peter sat up in his chair. 

“Five thousand!” he exclaimed. “Five thousand 
dollars? Did she often draw as much as that?” 

“No, never anywhere near as much as that before. 
And she took cash, too. Parsons warned her that it 


A SIGNATURE CARD 


107 

wasn’t very safe, these days, to carry so much money 
around, and suggested that she take it in A.B.A. 
checks. He thought she was going to, for she asked 
to see the blanks, and then she decided that she 
wasn’t afraid to take the cash.” 

“I’m not awfully familiar with those checks,” 
said Peter, apparently, for the moment, losing inter¬ 
est in his main subject, “but I understand they’re a 
great convenience when you’re travelling. Got one 
handy? I’d like to see one.” 

“Yes, they’re great,” said the cashier, producing a 
pad of blanks from the drawer of his desk, and laying 
it before the detective. 

Peter looked at it for a moment, curiously. 

“You sign here, in the body of the check when pur¬ 
chasing, don’t you,” he said, slowly, “and then, when 
you sign again, here at the bottom, it identifies you. 
Yes. Very clever. Very convenient. I’ll remember, 
when I have another long trip to take. Thanks.” 

He sat considering in silence for a little time. 
Then he asked: 

“How does Miss Blake’s account stand with the 
bank? I mean, is it a joint account? Can she and 
her sister both draw checks against it?” 

“Yes,” Dunne answered, promptly. 

“Then, if Miss Mary should—die—Miss Anne 
could still go on drawing against the account without 
any bother about a will, or anything.” 

“Naturally, but I don’t quite see how this ap¬ 
plies-” 




io8 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“No,” agreed Peter, genially. “It probably 
doesn’t. I was only thinking-” 

He continued thinking silently for a moment, then 
he went on: 

“Would you feel that there was any harm in telling 
me how much money Miss Blake has on deposit 
here?” 

“I really couldn’t do that, Mr. Clancy. It’s 
against the rules of the bank. I’m sorry.” 

Peter grinned—computing swiftly in his own mind. 

“Would I be safe, do you think,” he asked, “in 
extending credit to Miss Blake to the amount of 
twenty-five thousand dollars?” 

The young cashier laughed. 

“You would, Mr. Clancy. You certainly would.” 

“Suppose it were necessary, and I doubled the 
credit?” 

Dunne’s eyes twinkled with merriment, and he 
shook his head. 

“I wouldn’t advise you to go much above that, 
Mr. Clancy,” he said, “but at the present moment 
you wouldn’t be risking your fifty thousand to any 
extent.” 

The grin left Peter’s face, and his eyes narrowed. 
He had, indeed, found food for thought. A joint 
account, for about fifty thousand dollars, which 
would be entirely under Anne’s control if Mary— 
should die. Had he found a motive, a sufficient 
motive ? And why had Anne drawn so large a sum on 
Saturday? Saturday! The very day before the one 




A SIGNATURE CARD 109 

on which Anne and Mary had both vanished, leaving 
no trace. 

Did someone know of the large sum in currency 
which the sisters had in their apartment, presumably, 
on Saturday night ? . . . But Anne, at least, had 

left the apartment, herself unharmed, on Sunday 
evening. That was an established fact. 

And why hadn’t Anne made use of the safe and 
convenient A.B.A. checks, as the paying teller had 
advised her? She had evidently considered doing so, 
for she had examined the blanks—and found, not 
only that she must sign them first when purchasing, 
but also that the signature at the bottom must agree 
with the one in the body of the check when it was 
cashed. 

There was only one possible conclusion in the de¬ 
tective's mind. She did not wish to use her own 
name, and that was why she would not buy them of 
the bank where she was known. If she was clever, 
she would see that she could purchase the checks 
elsewhere and use any name she saw fit. Peter was 
confident that when, or if, they found Anne Blake, it 
would be under some other name. 

These reflections occupied but a moment, so swift 
were Peter's mental processes. He had noted and 
tabulated each circumstance for future application 
to the problem in hand, and there had been scarcely a 
perceptible pause in the conversation when he said: 

“I'm awfully obliged to you, Mr. Dunne, for the 
information you’ve given me. There’s just one thing 


IIO 


THE SINISTER MARK 


more. Would you mind showing me any vouchers 
you may happen to have on Miss Blake’s account? 
It would be a great favour.” 

The cashier pursed his lips, and shook his head. 

“I’m afraid I really couldn’t do that, Mr. Clancy,” 
he said, apologetically. “Cancelled checks are the 
property of the client, and not of the bank. I could 
show you the signature card, if you’d be interested in 
that. It shows both signatures, if that’s what you 
want to see.” 

Peter did not care to explain that he had hoped to 
get from the vouchers some clue which would indicate 
with whom the sisters were accustomed to have deal¬ 
ings, or that he might stumble on some other valu¬ 
able bit of information. This proving impossible, he 
might as well look at the signatures. As O’Malley 
always said, “You never can tell-” 

“Why, thanks. I would like to see them, Mr. 
Dunne,” he said, “if it isn’t too much trouble.” 

“Not a bit,” responded the cashier, rising. 

He passed again behind the network of grilles, and 
presently returned with the usual signature card in 
his hand. Seating himself, he laid it before the de¬ 
tective. 

Peter examined the signatures carefully. Mary 
Blake’s was, so far as he could judge, precisely like 
those he had seen at Frederick Jones’s office, the writ¬ 
ing rather large, and slanting in the ordinary way. 
Anne’s signature was small and cramped and written 
“backhand,” very different from her sister’s gener- 



A SIGNATURE CARD 


hi 


ous, spirited writing. And yet, in some ways, they 
were similar, Peter noted; a fact probably due to long 
association. The e’s, for instance, were formed in 
both cases, not in a loop, but like a written capital e, 
and they were separate, not joined to the letter k 
which preceded in the word “Blake.” 

Peter remarked these points in passing, but their 
full significance did not dawn upon him for many, 
many anxious days. 


CHAPTER XIII 

The Woman at the Pennsylvania Hotel 


TTERE he is,” said Captain O’Malley, as Peter, 
having made a quick trip from the Scoville 
Bank, entered the door of his partner’s private office. 
“ You’re just in time, Pete. Fox thinks he’s found 
the lady!” 

“What, already?” said Peter, glancing sharply at 
the round, smooth face of the detective who stood 
beside O’Malley’s desk. “And which one?” 

“I think I’ve found Miss Mary Blake. But, of 
course, I can’t be perfectly sure yet,” answered Fox, 
thrusting forward his chin, eagerly. “I’ve been 
rounding up the hotels to see what ladies, travelling 
alone, registered on Sunday night. Been doing it 
ever since we got our orders, and I haven’t had any 
luck till just about an hour ago. I’d gone all through 
the smaller hotels, thinking she’d sure pick a quiet 
one, and then it suddenly occurred to me that maybe 
she’d think she’d attract less attention at one of the 
big ones, and after running through several, I hit the 
Pennsylvania. Happens I know the clerk there, so 
he took some pains to help me. He was off duty 
Sunday, and there wasn’t anybody registered that 
day that could possibly have been either of the Miss 


THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA 113 

Blakes. But, as you know, Clancy, they’re pretty 
particular about taking any ladies without luggage, 
and Watson (that’s the clerk) thought she might 
possibly have tried to get in and they wouldn’t take 
her. So he got hold of the man that was on duty 
Sunday, and I gave him my spiel. This lad (Frank¬ 
lin, his name is) said there was a lady, very beautiful 
and young, that came into the hotel on Sunday eve¬ 
ning, about seven, and wanted a room. She didn’t 
have nothing but a small handbag, and she was so 
pretty Franklin was leary of her and said they were 
full up. So then I asked him if he had any idea where 
she’d gone, and he said that she seemed so kind of 
timid and upset about not getting a room, and she 
didn’t look exactly like a rounder (though you can’t 
always tell, at that), so he suggested that she might 
go over to the station and talk to the Travellers’ Aid 
officer that’s always in the women’s waiting room; 
that she could find out there some respectable board¬ 
ing house she could get into.” 

“Yes?” said Peter, eagerly, as Fox paused for 
breath. 

“Well, that sounded good to me, so I beat it over 
to the station, and sure enough, the Travellers’ Aid 
woman there did remember that a pretty young 
woman come in Sunday evening and that she’d rec¬ 
ommended a boarding house on Twenty-sixth Street, 
where they take nothing but women. Then I chased 
over to the boarding house, and sure enough, she was 
there, all right. I saw the landlady. She’s a re- 


THE SINISTER MARK 


114 

spectable woman, enough, but it’s a big house that 
caters to a transient trade and I guess they can't be 
too particular. Anyhow, she said the girl looked all 
right and paid for a week in advance, so she should 
worry. I described Miss Blake to her, and she thinks 
it's her, all right. I couldn’t do nothing more with¬ 
out a photo, so I beat it over to see if we’d got one 
yet; and that’s as far as I’ve gone.” 

“Sounds good so far,” remarked O’Malley. 
“What do you think, Pete?” 

“Well, it fits what we know, as far as it goes,” said 
Clancy. “But the acid test’ll be matching this girl 
up to the photograph. Have you got the duplicates 
yet, O’Malley?” 

“Just come in, not five minutes ago,” answered the 
old man, reaching for a large envelope which lay upon 
his desk. “Pretty good service we’re getting from 
the Swift Camera Company. They’re swift in some¬ 
thing more than the name. Here, Fox, here you 
are.” He held out four unmounted photographs. 
“You can’t make a mistake with all those for com¬ 
parison, but see her yourself, and make sure.” 

Fox scratched his head. 

“But how’m I going to get a chance to compare 
’em?” he asked, doubtfully. “The landlady says 
that the young woman, who gave her name as Mrs. 
Florence Smith, keeps in her room the whole time. 
She don’t go out at all. Has her meals sent up. 
Says she’s nervous about meeting strangers, but it 
looks to me as if she was hiding.” 


THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA 115 

Peter and O’Malley exchanged glances. 

“Find out anything else?” asked Peter, with in¬ 
creasing interest. 

“Only that she hasn’t had any more luggage sent 
in. Just had nothing but the handbag she come 
with. And that she’d written and sent out one letter 
since she come, and last night, the only time she’s 
been out at all, she asked where was the nearest 
place she could send a telegram.” 

“Wonder when she sent that letter, and if it was 
by messenger,” said Peter, reflectively. “You didn’t 
happen to ask, did you, Fox?” 

“No, I didn’t, Clancy. Does it matter?” 

“Well- I don’t know- Might- But 

that’ll be easy enough to find out from the landlady, 
I guess,” said Peter. “Anyhow, the whole bag of 
tricks sounds pretty interesting, Fox. We’re bound 
to follow it up. Somebody’s got to get a peek at her 
by hook or by crook.” 

“But how?” asked Fox, irritably. “How am I 
going to get at her? I can’t go and bust into her 
room. And if she never leaves it-” 

“She’ll have to leave it sometime, son,” said 
O’Malley, soothingly. “All you’ll have to do is to 
stick around, and sooner or later she’s bound to come 
into the open.” 

This suggestion of “watchful waiting” made no 
appeal to Peter, however. He thought a minute, 
and then said to Fox: 

“There’s a way of getting to her and I’ll bet I find 






116 THE SINISTER MARK 

it. Your feet get cold too easy, Fox, and you’ve got 
no imagination. I ll take this thing on, here and 
now. Come on and lead me to that landlady, and 
I’ll show you how the thing can be done.’ 

Fox, grumbling inwardly, did as he was bid, and 
the two men proceeded as fast as possible to Twenty- 
sixth Street. There he introduced Clancy to the 
landlady, a lean, middle-aged woman, of respectable 
appearance, with a cold, calculating blue eye. 

“I don’t know why I should help you to see Mrs. * 
Smith,” she said, in answer to Peter’s request. 
“She’s paid her board and lodging in advance, and 
she’s quieter’n any lady in the house. I don’t know 
you, and-” 

Peter interrupted her. 

“Mrs. Comfort,” (for, inappropriate as it seemed, 
this was the landlady’s name) “Mrs. Comfort,” 
he said, “we don’t know whether or not Mrs. Smith 
is the lady we’re looking for. And, in any case, 
there’s nothing against her and we mean her no harm. 
The lady we’re looking for”—he fixed her with his 
eye and touched his forehead significantly, shaking 
his head in apparent commiseration—“has left her 
friends, and has left no address.” 

“You mean she’s crazy?” asked the landlady, in a 
horrified whisper. “I thought she acted kind of 
queer. I can’t bear crazy people,” she shivered. 

Peter was quick to follow up his advantage. 

“But this may not be the lady we’re looking for, 
Mrs. Comfort. We only want to make sure. It 



THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA 117 

would be too bad to worry you if we’re mistaken. 
One thing: She sent a letter out since she’s been here. 
Do you happen to know when it was she sent it?” 

“Yes, I do know that, positive,” said Mrs. Com¬ 
fort, uncomfortably. “She asked Lily, the waitress, 
to take it out when she went home Sunday night.” 

“Was it to go by messenger?” asked Peter, quickly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Would Lily, do you think? And whom the letter 
was addressed to? Do you imagine she’d remember? 
Could you ask her for me, Mrs. Comfort? If I knew 
the address on the letter, I might not have to see Mrs. 
Smith to make sure.” 

“No,” irritably, “I can’t ask Lily, for the simple 
reason that she hasn’t showed up so far this week at 
all.” 

“Too bad,” said Peter. “Well, never mind, Mrs. 
Comfort. It won’t matter to me, anyway, if you’ll 
fix it so we can find out whether this Mrs. Smith is 
the lady we want. You will fix it, won’t you?” 
His tone was very persuasive. 

“Well,” hesitated the landlady, rubbing her long 
nose with a bony forefinger, “it’d ease my mind to 
have you see her since what you’ve told me. But 
how can I? I’ve got no right to let you go up to her 
room. This is a respectable house, and-” 

“I know it is,” Peter agreed, cordially. “It’s got 
a fine reputation, Mrs. Comfort. But even if you 
don’t have men boarders, surely you must have men 
in to make repairs, or something. Flow about the 



118 


THE SINISTER MARK 


telephone? I could go in to inspect the telephone. 
You could come along with me if you Iike. ,> 

“ But there’s no telephones in the rooms/’ objected 
the landlady. “What d’you think this is? The 
Ritz?” 

Peter was checked for the moment. He glanced 
around the lace-curtained parlour for inspiration. 
The house was an old one, and lighted by gas. The 
fact, immediately noted, gave him an idea, and he 
was about to suggest that he go up and pretend to do 
something to the burners in Mrs. Smith’s room, when 
a sharp ring at the front door bell interrupted him. 

“Them girls downstairs is so slow.” With an 
annoyed gesture Mrs. Comfort turned quickly, 
passed through the open double doors of the parlour, 
and herself opened the street door. 

Peter heard but one sentence—and he was out in 
the hall in the twinkling of an eye. Without a word 
of explanation he snatched a yellow envelope from 
the outstretched hand of an elderly “messenger boy” 
who stood upon the threshold, dropped his own hat on 
the hall table, unceremoniously appropriated the cap 
of the astounded messenger, and turned swiftly to 
Mrs. Comfort. 

“Which room?” he whispered. “Quick!” 

“Third floor back,” gasped the landlady. “But 
you can’t-” 

Peter did not wait to hear her expostulations. He 
dashed up the stairs and was out of sight before she 
could finish the sentence. 



THE WOMAN AT THE PENNSYLVANIA 119 

He stopped for an instant before the door of the 
third floor back, to get his breath. Then he knocked 
softly. 

“ Who’s there ? ” The voice had a startled, anxious 
ring. 

* “Western Union Telegraph,” Peter answered, in a 
quiet, assured tone. 

The door opened the least crack, and then was flung 
wide, the envelope snatched from his hand and torn 
open, the contents devoured. Peter stood stock still, 
with wide-open eyes. 

“Oh, thank God! Thank God! He’ll take me 
home. He’ll take me back! Oh, father, dear 
father!” She was sobbing, beside herself. She 
turned, blindly, to Peter. “How do I get this? 
This money?—I want to go home. To go home to 
California. He’ll save me from Roger. He’ll pro¬ 
tect me. I won’t have to bear anything more. I’ll 
be free, at last!” The words tumbled wildly over 
each other, and again, almost without taking breath, 
she asked, “How do I get this money?” 

Peter saw it all in a flash. The woman, hiding 
from a husband who had ill-treated her, the father 
who had sent the money, faster than on the wings of 
the wind, to bring his daughter home. ... It 
was an old story, with, Peter hoped, a happy ending, 
for the girl was beautiful and appealing—though not 
in the least, except in generalities, like the portrait 
which he carried inside the breast of his coat. 


CHAPTER XIV 


One Clue 

A ND this sort of thing was destined to be Peter’s 
L experience for many days to come. Every 
waking hour, and many when he should have been 
sleeping, was spent in following up clues unearthed 
by eager detectives, spurred to incessant action by 
the large reward which Donald Morris had privately 
offered for any news of either or both of the sisters. 

Morris had been inclined, at first, to limit the re¬ 
ward to news of Mary. 

“I care nothing about the sister, Clancy,*’ he said. 
“What does it matter to me where she is, or what she 

does? It’s Mary—Mary-” 

The agonized appeal in his eyes was almost more 
than Peter could bear. The two men, so unlike, but 
with the bond of one common interest, had become, 
in those few days, fast friends. Peter could not 
bring himself even to hint at the sinister possibility 
which had presented itself to his mind and to Captain 
O’Malley’s. Hardened as they were to the terrible 
crimes which were committed in this great city every 
day, the possibility of murder—a word which they 
had not whispered, even to each other—was not one 
which Peter would willingly suggest to the client who 


120 



ONE CLUE 


I 21 


had become his friend. It was, therefore, with great 
difficulty that he persuaded Morris to make the re¬ 
ward applicable to news of either of the sisters. 

“If we can only find Anne,” he said to O’Malley, 
after Morris had reluctantly consented, “I promise 
you I’ll put the screws on her and find out what hap¬ 
pened to Mary Blake, if it’s necessary to have her 
arrested for murder to do it. You watch me! I’m 
going to find Anne /” 

But for once, for all his confidence in himself, 
Peter seemed destined to failure. Each day and all 
day long and far into the night, all over the country, 
sharp-eyed men and women trained to the last keen 
edge of observation and inquiry sought for the missing 
women. 

And always there were clues. Their name was 
legion, and Peter did not dare, in his own words, 
“to pass one up,” for fear that it might lead true, at 
last. It seemed impossible that there could be so 
many unexplained women as were unearthed; so 
many women with birthmarks, so many who were 
young and dark, and to the observer’s eager eye 
(dazzled, perhaps by the amount of the reward) so 
like the photograph which each detective carried 
about with him. 

In his investigations, Peter travelled the country 
over. A swift journey to St. Louis—and failure. 
Returning, he had no more than reached his office, 
when a report came in of a young woman, with a 
conspicuous birthmark, who had recently taken ob- 


122 


THE SINISTER MARK 


scure lodgings in a back street in Philadelphia. The 
cases of those who were supposed to be Anne Blake 
were the most difficult to cope with and took the most 
time. A decision could only be reached, in some in¬ 
stances, by finding out the antecedents cf the sus¬ 
pects, and by determining that the person in ques¬ 
tion was definitely in some other place on the twenty- 
eighth of May, for there was nothing in Peter’s 
possession with which to identify her except a meagre 
description. 

He had made time to amplify this to the fullest 
extent possible. To this end, he had called again on 
the janitor, Angelo Russo, at the apartment in Wav- 
erly Place, late in the afternoon following his experi¬ 
ence with the soi-disant Mrs. Florence Smith. 

He had gone quietly into the old apartment house 
and, unheralded, had sought the janitor in his own 
domain. In the dark, stuffy basement, he had inter¬ 
viewed Angelo and his invalid wife, who appeared 
almost too ill to answer any questions. 

“She not know noding ’bout noding,” Angelo said, 
interposing his short body, protectively, between 
Peter and his wife. “ She sick long time. Doc’, she 
say mus’ have fresh air—count-ree. How get him, 
me? Try ev’ way I know, Godalmighty! but no good 
—Angelo have no lucka—only troub’—jus’ troub’.” 

“Did your wife ever see Miss Anne Blake?” asked 
Peter, touched, in spite of his preoccupation, by the 
poor, stupid Italian’s sincere distress. “That’s all I 
want to know.” 




ONE CLUE 


123 

“Yes. Me seen her long time ’go,” said the wife, 
in a thin, weak voice. “ Long time ’go,” she repeated, 
sadly. 

“Could you describe her to me? Tell me how she 
looked?” asked Peter, kindly. “A woman some¬ 
times sees more than a man.” 

But the poor woman’s powers of description w’ere 
little better than her husband’s. She insisted, how¬ 
ever, that Anne Blake was not thin, “not skinny/’ 
but—Peter supplied the word—slender. “Yes, she 
was slen’, but stronga. Me see her lif’ biga heavy 
ting, carry ’em ’roun’ lika easy. No, not skinny— 
what you say, slen’? Yes.” This was the only way 
in which her description varied from Angelo’s. 

After leaving the Russos, Peter had found two or 
three tradesmen, in the immediate vicinity, who knew 
Anne Blake by sight. He was able to determine from 
them that her appearance was, in a general way, such 
as before described. As to the birthmark, one or two 
thought it was on the left, and the others thought it 
was on the right, cheek. One perhaps fanciful lady, 
who owned a small bake shop, said she remembered it 
well, and that it was certainly on the right cheek, ex¬ 
tending down on the neck. That it looked to her 
something like the mark of a hand, a big spot below, 
and four—or was it only three—smaller ones, run¬ 
ning up on the cheek. “Dark it was, like blood, an’ 
awful to have upon ye, the poor thing!” 

This was all that Peter had to go upon in his sub¬ 
sequent attempts to trace Anne Blake, and only once, 




THE SINISTER MARK 


124 

after investigation, had he been at all assured that he 
had found a genuine clue. This happened on the 
Wednesday following the disappearance. 

He had sent a woman detective to interview the 
matron of the women’s waiting room in the Pennsyl¬ 
vania Station. This detective found that the neat 
coloured woman, in charge of the pay dressing rooms, 
remembered seeing a veiled lady come in there on 
Sunday evening. She couldn’t be sure, but she 
thought it was after five. It was not very long before 
the time when she went off duty, and that was at six. 
She recollected, too, that the lady had some sort of 
disfigurement on her face. She had received the fee 
and opened one of the pay dressing rooms for her, 
but whether it was because the lady stayed in there 
till after her time was up, or for whatever reason, the 
coloured woman had no recollection of seeing her 
again. 

And after three weeks of almost incessant toil this 
was the one thing Peter had learned. Porters and 
conductors of every train which left the Pennsylvania 
Station on that fateful Sunday night had been per¬ 
sonally interviewed. Not one remembered seeing 
any such lady as Peter described. As far as he was 
able to learn, Anne Blake might have vanished into 
thin air. 

The search for a cab which Mary Blake might have 
taken on that Sunday evening had proved equally 
fruitless. The city, as Peter had promised Donald 
Morris, had been gone over with a fine-tooth comb. 


ONE CLUE 


125 


All the big taxi companies, the smaller garages, and 
all the “free lances,” from the Bronx to the Battery, 
had been investigated, to no purpose. No one had 
seen Mary Blake leave Waverly Place and every 
trace of her was utterly lost. Like her sister, she had 
slipped out of sight, leaving no ripple to betray her 
passage. 

“It looks as if the only chance of getting results 
would be to let the story leak out to the papers,” said 
Peter to O’Malley, late one afternoon toward the end 
of June. “Mr. Morris is dead against it. Thinks 
that Miss Mary would hate the publicity worse than 
anything in the world. And even if we could per¬ 
suade him to let us go ahead and practically advertise, 
even then I’m not any too hopeful.” He sighed, 
wearily. “I don’t see, in any case, why Anne should 
come out of the woods. Dammit! If she’d only 
draw some of that money that’s lying up there at the 
Scoville Bank, it might give us a look-in. But they 
haven’t heard a word. I’m sure she’s got plenty of 
funds in hand, all right, and is lying low. Wonder 
how she figures to pull out that money without any 
one getting wise as to where she is.” 

“I’ve been puzzling about that, too,” said O’Mal¬ 
ley. “Seems as if she’d have to take somebody into 
her confidence to put it across, but if what we’ve 
doped out is true, and Mary Blake never turns up, 
for the simple reason that-” He made an ex¬ 

pressive gesture. 

“That letter keeps coming back to my mind, 



126 


THE SINISTER MARK 


O’Malley/’ said Peter, reflectively, “the one Mary 
wrote to Donald Morris. And one phrase sticks in 
my crop—‘There will be no one left but Anne, if I 

fail-’ It looks like what we thought—and yet— 

somehow I can’t get it out of my head-” Sud¬ 

denly he banged his fist down on the desk and jumped 
to his feet. “I’m going through that apartment 
again, O’Malley,’’ he said. “ I’ve been trying to ever 
since—but some damned bright-eyes thought he had 
the whole thing cinched, and I’ve had to beat it 
somewhere on a wild-goose chase. But I’m through 
with that for the present. I don’t care who has a 
pipe dream, induced by too big a reward, I’m going 
to see if there isn’t something in that apartment 
that’ll give us a lead. If we could only find out 
where they came from, and who they knew, it might 
give us a line on where they’d be likely to go. The 
way it is, we’ve just about come to a standstill, as I 
see it. There must be something left in the place 
where they’ve lived for several years that would be 
a hint to the guy who was able to take it. That key’s 
been burning in my pocket all these weeks, and to¬ 
night I’m going to use it, see! I don’t want any 
gallery, so I’m going late, just before the street door’s 
closed for the night. That’s at twelve o’clock. I’ll 
try to fix it so that I don’t run into the janitor.” 

“Oh, I guess you needn’t be much afraid of that, 
from what Rawlins says. He’s been pretty well fed 
up with just watching the house when there’s been 
absolutely nothing stirring, and he’s sort of made 







ONE CLUE 


127 

friends with Angelo to keep from being bored stiff. 
And the poor old devil, Angelo, I mean, is just about 
crazy on account of his wife. She won’t go to a 
hospital, and there he is, taking care of her and try¬ 
ing to hold down his job at the same time. With 
the result that he’s only upstairs when he can’t get 
out of it. So-” 

“So you think there’s no fear of my running into 
him,” concluded Peter. “Well, I don’t suppose he’d 
beef about it much, but you never can tell with these 
ignorant foreigners. They sometimes have an attack 
of conscience in the most unexpected places. I won’t 
take any chances. I’ll get Rawlins to give me the tip 
when he’s out of the way-” 

“I guess it would be as well, at that,” said O’Mal¬ 
ley. “But what do you expect to find, Pete? You 
went over the apartment pretty thoroughly the first 
day, didn’t you?” 

“I did take a good look,” answered Peter. “It 
was as thorough as I could make it at the time, and 
with Morris champing at the bit. But I’m not en¬ 
tirely satisfied—haven’t been all along. There’s 
a queer feel about the place, O’Malley. You may 
think I’m getting fanciful in my old age, and I can’t 

explain to you just what it is that seems- The 

place is shut in—airy enough, and all that, you know, 
but cut off from the rest of the world. . . . You 
have the sort of feeling that almost anything might 
happen there—and no one the wiser. . . . The 
windows are all covered with curtains that are thin 






128 


THE SINISTER MARK 


enough to let in the light and air but thick enough so 
you couldn’t see a thing from the outside. They’re 
not the usual sash curtains, but run from the top to 
the bottom of the windows, and there’s a rod through 
them at the bottom so they can’t blow—and there 
are thick, dark shades. ... Of course it might 
be that way in any apartment where the outlook 
wasn’t very attractive—and it may be just that. 
. . . You may think I’m a nut, O’Malley, but 

I’ve got it into my old bean that there was something 
more—a purpose—I don’t know what. . . . But 

I’m going to find out. The thing’s got me going. 
I’m going to find out, O’Malley, if it takes a leg!” 






CHAPTER XV 
The Duplicate Key 

fT WAS a dark night, hot and close, with a feel of 
thunder in the air. The big arc lights near the arch 
in Washington Square made spots of copperas green 
on the close-trimmed grass and flecks of emerald on 
the full summer foliage of the trees. Above, the sky 
was velvet black, thick and solid, like a pall, except 
for the faint, pulsating glow of heat lightning over in 
the west. 

In the short length of Waverly Place the shadows 
lay deep, like those at the bottom of a canon. At 
the far end shone the lights of Broadway, dim here 
in comparison with its upper reaches of flashing 
electricity. An occasional car banged and rumbled 
on its way north or south, serving to accentuate the 
silence of the short cross street. 

It was nearing midnight when Peter Clancy 
alighted from the stage at Fifth Avenue and made 
his way eastward. When he reached the corner of 
University Place, he whistled softly, five notes in a 
minor key. That simple little call was as familiar 
to every man on his staff as the notes of a robin to a 
country-bred boy. 

Immediately a shadow, among the shadows on the 


129 


THE SINISTER MARK 


130 

south side of the street, moved toward him. Peter 
advanced quietly. 

“That you, Mr. Clancy?” A voice from the mov¬ 
ing shadow, and as it came closer, Peter could just 
distinguish Rawlins’s face. 

“Anything stirring, Rawlins?” 

“Not a damn thing,” the man replied, disgustedly. 
“This is a hell of a job to put a live man on, Mr. 
Clancy. Been hangin’ around here for weeks, and 
not a soul to speak to but Sullivan and the dago over 
there-” 

“Angelo swallowed the story of your being a plain¬ 
clothes watchman for the bank here all right, didn’t 
he? He hasn’t any suspicion-” 

“Not a suspish,” said Rawlins, confidently. “He 
and I are good friends, all righty—and I can’t help 
being sorry for the poor devil. He’s such a fool, and 
he’s up against it, sure enough. He ought to send 
that wife of his to a hospital.” 

“Those people haven’t any sense about that sort 
of thing,” commented Peter. “But never mind that 
now, Rawlins. Just slip over and see if the coast is 
clear. I’m going up to the apartment for a bit, and 
I’m not looking for an excited audience. Beat it 
over, and give me the high sign if he’s out of the 
way.” 

Peter waited in the dark entrance next to the 
American Bank, which was directly opposite number 
Ninety-nine. He saw Rawlins’s short, wiry figure 
silhouetted against the dim light which burned in the 




THE DUPLICATE KEY 131 

hallway of the house across the way; saw him disap¬ 
pear in the darkness at the other end of the passage. 

It seemed a long time to Peter’s impatience before 
Rawlins again appeared and, like a shadow, flitted 
across the street. He was out of breath when he 
reached Peter, and chuckling softly to himself. 

“What’s up?” asked Peter, sharply. “What are 
you laughing at, Rawlins? Let me in on the joke.” 

“Gee!” exclaimed Rawlins under his breath. “I’ll 
bet the Federal authorities would give a good deal to 
have heard what I just did. Say, Clancy, did you 
ever hear that the dagoes in this old burg have got a 
real, honest-to-God lottery going strong under cover 
somewhere?” 

“Oh, there are always rumours like that going 
around,” said Peter, carelessly. “The Chinese and 
the French and the Italians. What’s that got to do 
with the price of cheese?” 

“Why,” said Rawlins, still chuckling, “there’s a 
man over there with Angelo in his little front room— 
I gum-shoed through the hall and part way down the 
stairs, and I heard ’em talking. Angelo is crazy be¬ 
cause he’s lost some money on the thing, poor devil, 
and he talked louder than I guess he knew. They 
both spoke Italian, but you know I’m a shark at 
lingoes, Clancy,” with evident pride. 

“Yes, I know,” said Peter, impatiently, “but we 
aren’t here to sleuth out things for the Government. 
I’d have been interested awhile back, but I’ve got 
something else on my chest now. D’you think 


THE SINISTER MARK 


132 

Angelo is likely to come up in the next few minutes ? 
That’s all I want to know.” 

“I should say, from the start he’s got, that he ’d go 
on cussin’ his friend for some time,” answered Raw¬ 
lins, grinning in the dark at his recollection of the 
little Italian’s language. “If you chase over right 
away, you’ll make it without any trouble. Angelo 
is what you might call occupied just about now.” 

“All right,” said Peter, softly. 

Swift and quiet as a cat, he crossed the street, 
passed through the gas-lighted hall, and up the stairs. 

There was no gas burning on the third landing, 
from which he deduced that the apartment was still 
unoccupied. The fourth floor also was perfectly 
dark and Peter had to flash his electric hand-light 
upon the door to fit his duplicate key. 

The lock grated with an uneasy sound and the door 
swung slowly inward. Still, black darkness, which 
could almost be felt, confronted him. Peter stepped 
across the threshold, and without a sound, carefully 
shut the door. 

The closed rooms, after the oppressive heat of the 
outer world, seemed damp and cold, and Peter 
shivered slightly. In his rubber-soled shoes he made 
no sound as he advanced into the living room, flash¬ 
ing his light carefully about to avoid colliding with 
anything. 

There was little fear of being seen from the outside, 
since the buildings opposite were used for business 
purposes, and empty at this time of night, but Peter 


THE DUPLICATE KEY 133 

was taking no chances. His first move was to pull 
down the dark shades at the windows. 

Remembering the way the outer halls were lighted, 
he struck a match to light the gas, and found, to his 
surprise, that the apartment was equipped with 
electricity. He had not noticed it before, or if he 
had, it had made no impression on his then preoc¬ 
cupied mind. He saw nothing significant in it now— 
was glad of the more brilliant light in which to make 
his investigation—that was all. There was a candle 
lamp over on the desk and a big, shaded lamp upon 
the table. Peter switched on the smaller lamp. 

In the quiet light which illumined the room he 
could see that it was just as he had left it over three 
weeks before. A little dust had drifted in through 
the chinks of the windows, filming the polished ma¬ 
hogany of table, chairs, and couch, but otherwise 
there was no change, except that the scarf, which had 
proved an open sesame to a world of anxiety, had 
been removed. But Peter knew all about that. He, 
himself, had taken it to VanDorn and Sawyer to have 
the stain upon it analyzed. They found it to be, 
what he felt sure from the first it was, human blood. 
The scarf lay, now, in the safe at his office. 

Peter went into the bedroom and pulled down the 
shade, lest some wakeful person in the houses on 
the street above might catch a gleam from the light 
which he had left burning in the living room, and be¬ 
come curious. Then, softly, he crept into the dining 
room and lowered the blinds there, then into the 


THE SINISTER MARK 


i 34 

kitchen, where he noted that the broken pane of 
glass had been replaced according to Morris’s careful 
instructions to Angelo on the day it was discovered. 
He had felt, with Morris, that it was an unnecessary 
risk to leave it in a condition in which any sneak 
thief might have entered from the fire-escape with 
perfect ease. 

Peter drew the dark blue blind down to the sill, 
and flashed the cold eye of his hand torch about, 
looking for a light fixture. He found it in the shape 
of an old-fashioned gas chandelier with two burners, 
suspended from the ceiling. He lit them both. 
The gas burned high, with a soft, secret hiss. It 
sounded loud in the remote stillness of the place, and 
automatically Peter lowered it to the point of silence. 

Then, supplementing the light from above with the 
clear gleam of his torch, he searched the kitchen 
with microscopic thoroughness, but found nothing 
which could be supposed, in any remote way, to have 
a bearing on his problem. The two significant de¬ 
tails, the fallen glass upon the outside of the sill and 
the sliver of ice in the sink, which he had noted on 
that perplexing Monday, having disappeared, the 
kitchen had no other revelations to offer. 

He proceeded to the dining room, with a like re¬ 
sult. Except for the disarrangement of the side¬ 
board already noted, the room was evidently just as 
it ordinarily appeared when tenanted. Again he 
noticed that there was but one chair drawn up to the 
small round mahogany dining table. The rest were 


THE DUPLICATE KEY 


135 

standing tidily against the walls, and he wondered 
if only one person had partaken of the last meal which 
was eaten in that room. 

Passing into the hall, he sent the brilliant eye of his 
flash back and forth across the dark waxed floor. 
It was thinly covered now with a light, feathery dust. 
It would blow into the little gray rolls that the hos¬ 
pital nurses call “kittens ” if the air was let in. 

“Gad, I wish I could open the windows,” thought 
Peter. “The air’s as dead as-” 

He paused before the open door of the small store¬ 
room, still looking at the floor. There was one spot 
here where the dust had collected thickly. A big 
round clot of it lay there and several smaller spots. 
Peter, with a slight faint creeping of the flesh, 
stepped carefully across this part of the floor and en¬ 
tered the storeroom. 

The only window here gave upon a narrow light- 
shaft across which was the window of the bath ad¬ 
joining. There were only thin muslin curtains at 
these windows, but at this midnight hour probably 
no one would notice the light at the top of the shaft. 

“Anyhow, I’ll have to risk it,” said Peter, half 
aloud, “I’ve got to make sure about this room.” 

There was only gas here, as in all the rear of the 
apartment, but the flow was good and the light 
fairly strong. Again Peter noted the slight abrasions 
of the wall where he concluded the other trunk had 
stood, the trunk which Bill, the taxi driver, had found 
so heavy, the trunk which Anne Blake had taken 


4 



136 


THE SINISTER MARK 


away with her to a destination which still remained 
veiled in mystery. 

The size of the trunk was—Peter measured from 
one little sharp indentation in the wall to another— 
three feet four or five inches—and from the floor, 
approximately twenty-four inches. 

“Big enough,” Peter muttered to himself. “Big 
enough for—almost anything.” 

He folded up his pocket rule and turned to the 
large brass-bound trunk which had been left stand¬ 
ing against the wall. 

“Makes me feel a bit like a burglar, but it’s all in 
the day’s work,” thought Peter, as he knelt beside 
it and inspected the lock. “I guess I’ve got you,” 
his thought ran on, “you’re easy,” and he took a 
large bunch of small keys from his pocket, and after 
a few minutes’ work, found one that fitted. 

A sharp crack of the lock, and Peter lifted the lid. 
The odour of camphor, in a great whiff, filled his 
nostrils, almost choking him. He drew back and 
took a long breath. 

“Gosh, they’ve used plenty of it,” he exclaimed, 
half aloud. “I’d be sorry for the poor devil of a moth 
that took a chance with that!” 

Carefully he lifted up the ends of the various 
articles in the trunk, in such a way as not to dis¬ 
arrange them. Except for a pair of woollen blankets 
at the bottom, there was nothing there but winter 
clothing of various sorts. Extremely various sorts, 
Peter saw, for first there was a magnificent evening 



THE DUPLICATE KEY 


i37 

wrap trimmed with almost priceless fur. Beneath 
it lay a plain, rough, dark, heavy winter cloak 
rubbed a little at the cuffs and collar, as with con¬ 
stant wear. There were carriage boots, satin, lined 
with fur, and next them, wrapped in newspaper, was 
a pair of high, fleece-lined goloshes, old and shabby. 
Peter looked at the date on the newspaper. 

“The Planet , May 25,” he read. “Somebody 
packed this trunk not more than three days be¬ 
fore- Well, I don’t see where that gets you, old 

top. Come get a move on.” 

In replacing the bundle of goloshes, he noticed that 
an article had been cut from the paper, not torn out, 
but cut with sharp scissors. The fact merely caught 
his attention in passing. 

“Probably a notice of ‘Dark Roads/” he thought, 
and dismissing the subject from his mind, he went on 
with his task. It proved somewhat trying, owing to 
the camphor fumes, which became more overpower¬ 
ing as he delved deeper into the trunk, and once they 
became so strong that he sneezed. 

He tried to choke it back, but it would come, a 
loud “Atchi!” which resounded horribly in the still¬ 
ness. 

Peter held his breath and listened. Nothing 
stirred. Far away he could hear the faint “whir—ee 
—ee” of a passing street car, over on Broadway, and 
the low murmuring of thunder overhead, but within 
was the silence of the tomb. 

“Cheerful, I calls it,” said Peter, to himself, draw- 




138 THE SINISTER MARK 

ing a long breath. “Well, I guess that’ll be about all 
here.” 

He closed and locked the trunk, flashed his light 
inside the open drawers of the small white chiffonier, 
and found nothing that could give him any help. 
Not a letter, not a card. No piece of writing of any 
sort. The very few articles of clothing which re¬ 
mained were old and worn. A pair of gray leather 
gloves, shabby with wear, still held the shape of 
slender, long hands. There was something almost 
pathetic about them as they lay there, palms upward, 
an appeal—but Peter was in no mood for S3 7 mpathy. 

“Anne Blake’s things, without a doubt,” he 
thought, “and too worn out to bother with. . . . 

And her winter stuff packed away with her sister’s. 
. . . I wonder if Sherlock Holmes would make 

anything out of that. Does it mean that she plans 
to come back in the fall? Or are they all things she 
has no further use for? And, if so, why pack ’em 
away so carefully? . . . And just a few days 

before—she—quit. Was the whole business ‘sudden 
at the last,’ as they say of people who are a long time 
dying?” He shook his red head in perplexity. 
“Well, no use trying to think it out now, Peter. 
Let’s get all the dope and then patch it together the 
best we can.” 

So saying, he slipped softly down the hall, throw¬ 
ing his brilliant light over every inch of the floor and 
walls. Almost without sound he drifted from the 
hall into the bedroom and stood still, looking about 




THE DUPLICATE KEY i 39 

him. There was electricity here, and he boldly 
switched on the lights in the ceiling. The resulting 
illumination was so bright that it made him blink. 

Then he proceeded with his investigation. 

Nothing in the waste basket, nothing, not even 
ashes, in the small, old-fashioned grate; nothing left 
in the few pockets he discovered with exceeding 
difficulty, in the various rich articles of women’s 
apparel which hung in the two closets. Nothing of 
any interest in the rifled drawers of the big 
highboy, nor in the empty drawers of the dressing 
table. A little drift of pink toilet powder still 
clung in the corner of one of them and there 
was a tiny smear of red on the inner side of the 
same drawer. Peter touched it and found that it 
was a trifle greasy and made his finger-tip rosy-red. 

“Rouge. Aha, my lady,” he chuckled, with a 
little grimace, “beauty isn’t always even skin deep.” 
And for the hundredth time he wondered if Mary 
Blake was all that Morris thought her. “Not that a 
little paint and powder is anything against a girl 
these days, when every flapper, from fifteen to fifty, 
makes up for the street, and some of ’em pile it on so 
thick you’d think they must have put it on with a 
trowel—in the dark. Well,” he looked about him, 
“there’s no excuse for her if she didn’t do it right.” 
He reached out and switched on the lights on both 
sides of the mirror, at the back of the dressing table. 
His pleasant, homely freckled face appeared in the 
glass, dazzlingly illuminated. “Humph! Mary 


1 4 o THE SINISTER MARK 

took no chances of not looking her best, F11 say that 
for her,” he thought. “But I wish to God she’d left 
me some real light on the problem she’s stacked me 
up against, instead of all this spotlight stuff. . . . 

Well—I guess there’s nothing here. Now for the 
living room.” 

He turned off all the lights, and went through into 
the room at the front. Here the little candle lamp 
on the desk threw a gentle, intimate glow over the 
rather austere old furniture and neutral-tinted walls. 
There was nothing here that even remotely suggested 
the theatrical; none of the customary signed photo¬ 
graphs, and but few pictures. Over the mantel, the 
Mona Lisa smiled her enigmatic smile, there were a 
few fine old Japanese prints, and that was all. In 
front of the centre window, on a slender pedestal, was 
an exquisite little plaster cast of an Andromeda, 
chained to a rock. Scratched in the base was the 
signature, D. V. L. Morris. 

All these generalities Peter could see in the quiet 
light, but they did not appear to have any particular 
significance. He felt that he needed all the light, 
both mental and material, that he could get, so with¬ 
out wasting any precious moments he took off the 
shade of the lamp which stood on the table and turned 
on both its high-powered bulbs. 

Again, as on that first day, he stirred the dead, cold 
ashes in the fireplace. No, there was nothing. 
Every particle of the paper was consumed. He 
could not even tell what sort of papers had been 



THE DUPLICATE KEY 


141 

burned. Sighing, he rose and looked again about the 
room. On each side of the fireplace were built-in 
shelves laden with books and magazines. There was 
a good deal of fiction which Peter had never read. 
Thackeray, George Meredith (Stevenson, Peter 
knew, and heartily approved), Henry James, Edith 
Wharton, and many others, including the novels and 
plays of Bernard Shaw. There was a good deal of 
poetry, and many plays, old and new. On the top 
shelf stood a worn set of Shakespeare, in a quaint, 
old-fashioned leather binding. Without knowing 
just why he did it, Peter took down one of the 
volumes at random. It chanced to be “Julius 
Caesar,” and on the fly leaf, in a bold, flowing hand, 
was the name, “Winthrop Curwood.” 

“Winthrop Curwood,” Peter repeated, half aloud. 
“Eve heard that name before somewhere. . . . 

Winthrop Curwood. . . . No, dammit, I can't 

place it. . . . And anyway, it may not mean a 

thing. The books are old enough to have been 

bought second-hand. I’ll just see-” He ran 

rapidly through a number of the older books. The 
name did not occur again. “However, I’ll just make 
a note of it. There doesn’t seem to be any other 
owner’s name written in any of ’em,” he thought, 
and in a little pocket memorandum book he copied 
the name “Winthrop Curwood,” in his clear, micro¬ 
scopic hand. 

In returning “Julius Caesar” to his place on the 
top shelf Peter’s hand struck a pile of magazines 



THE SINISTER MARK 


142 

which were closely stacked at the end. One of the 
slippery pamphlets loosened, and in a rush the whole 
lot came cascading down. 

Peter caught his breath, and thanked his lucky 
stars that there was no one in the apartment below. 
As he carefully returned them to their place he noted 
with some surprise that besides the more popular 
magazines of the day there were a number of scientific 
and medical journals, and several copies of a pub¬ 
lication called Beauty. He had never even heard 
of this latter, and glanced through one or two copies 
curiously, smiling a little, in spite of the seriousness 
of his quest. There appeared to be no end of ways 
in which one could heighten one’s beauty, and no 
practical limit to the absurdities which were recom¬ 
mended for the purpose. That someone had taken 
the suggestions seriously there could be little doubt, 
for in several cases articles had been carefully clipped 
from the body of the magazine. This had also 
happened, in one or two cases, in the medical journals. 
Peter wondered, in passing, what the subjects treated 
had been, but could form no idea, since the entire 
article, in each case, had been cut away. 

Peter had always been fascinated by people’s 
books, their selection was a matter so strongly indica¬ 
tive of character. But in this instance the evidence 
was distinctly contradictory. “A lot of high-brow 
books,” he thought, “and some of the rest of the stuff 
so low-brow it makes even me feel intellectual. Did 
Anne pick out one kind, and Mary the other—and 


THE DUPLICATE KEY 


143 

if so, which ? Oh, well, it’s no use to speculate now. 
Better get on.” He resumed his painstaking in¬ 
spection. 

He had saved the desk till the last. Here, if any¬ 
where, he was sure he would find what he so ardently 
sought. And yet, never in his life had he found so 
non-committal a lot of papers as were in the drawers 
and scattered on the floor. A great mass of press 
notices, with the little yellow slip of the clipping 
bureau still attached, were mixed up with plain 
white letter paper and envelopes. There were a few 
business letters from Frederick Jones, but not one 
from Mary’s old manager, Arthur Quinn. In fact, 
there were no strictly private letters to either of the 
sisters, and he could find none at all addressed to 
Anne. 

To avoid the smallest chance of missing anything, 
Peter had seated himself beside the desk and had 
drawn out, one by one, each of the four drawers, 
placing them upon his knees while he minutely 
examined the contents. 

Satisfied, at last, that there was nothing to his pur¬ 
pose in any of them, with a feeling of deep discourage¬ 
ment he slid them back into their places. They all 
ran in with the ease which one encounters only in very 
good old American-made furniture—all but the 
bottom drawer on the right. This slipped in 
smoothly until it was nearly shut, and then stuck. 

“Oh, damn,” said Peter, and pushed it hard. 

It would not move. He pulled it out and pushed 



THE SINISTER MARK 


144 

it in again, but it would not close completely. It 
did not really matter in the least. He had found the 
drawers open and there was no reason why this one 
should not remain so, but any one who has ever 
started to shut a drawer knows precisely how Peter 
felt. That drawer simply had to yield before he 
could go on with anything else . . . and per¬ 

haps . 

Peter jerked the drawer out, and dropped to his 
knees, while his right hand sought and found the 
flashlight in his pocket. There was a slight click, 
and a brilliant glare lit up the recess into which the 
drawer should have gone. 

Peter uttered a forcible exclamation, and stooping 
low, groped with his long fingers in the back of the 
recess, and drew out a small rectangle of stiff paste¬ 
board. At some time it must have fallen from the 
upper drawer and remained, perhaps for years, un¬ 
discovered. It had evidently fallen slantwise across 
the corner of the back when the drawer was pulled 
out, and had been slightly damaged by Peter’s efforts 
to close it. 

He automatically straightened a bent corner as he 
hastily took it over to the table where the bright 
light from the lamp could fall full upon it. 

Apparently, it was not an especially valuable 
treasure-trove. Just a small old carte-de-visite 
photograph of a little girl in a plain, somewhat 
countrified “best” dress of the last of the Nineties. 
She appeared to be about seven or eight years old, 


THE DUPLICATE KEY 


i 45 

and the childish face, which looked up at Peter, was 
one of such transcendent loveliness that he, always 
a lover of children, caught his breath. 

Peter took an unmounted photograph from the 
breast pocket of his coat, and laid the two portraits, 
side by side, upon the table. 

There could be no doubt. They were the same, 
they must be the same. The gay, laughing, ex¬ 
quisite child’s face had developed into that of a 
wonderful, sad, but equally beautiful woman. The 
great eyes, with their long, dark lashes, the small, 
straight nose, the curving lips, were the same. Only 
the expression was different, an unfathomable differ¬ 
ence. The spirit behind the eyes must have under¬ 
gone a complete metamorphosis to have made the 
apparent change. 

“It’s Mary Blake, all right, all right. I’ll bet my 
life on that,” muttered Peter to himself. “Mary 
Blake-” 

Quickly he turned the little photograph over. 
There was no writing on the back, as he had hoped, 
instead, in elaborate, filigreed lettering was printed 
the words— 


WALTER LORD, Photographer 
Hobart Falls, New York. 

“By gad,” exclaimed Peter under his breath, 
bringing his closed fist softly but with emphasis 
down upon the table. “The first look-in we’ve had. 



THE SINISTER MARK 


146 

The very first! Hobart Falls, New York. That’s 
where she must have come from—or somewhere near 
there, at least. . . . And Walter Lord. . . . 
Who can tell what Walter Lord may know . . 
if he’s still there—and alive.” 

With a rapid motion he slipped the two portraits 
into an inner pocket and buttoned his coat over them. 

“I’ll find out something about her, at last! My 
hunch about coming here wasn’t all to the bad. In 
this way I’ll bet I find out something about the 
secret past of Mary Blake—and Anne-” 

With eyes alight with the first hope he had known 
for many a day, Peter put back the shade upon the 
table lamp, readjusted various things about the room 
so that they should be, as near as possible, in the 
order—or disorder—in which he had found them, 
switched off the lights, and crept softly to the door. 

Gently, gently, with one hand on the latch and 
the other on the lock, he turned the two knobs 
and drew open the door. As he did so a clock 
somewhere outside in the darkness boomed “One, 
Two.” 

“Two o’clock,” thought Peter, as he sped noise¬ 
lessly down the stairs. “Not much sleep for me to¬ 
night. I must find out where Hobart Falls is and 
beat it for the first train in the morning. I’ve got a 
feeling in my bones that I’ve struck something at last. 
A little light thrown on the past may reflect on the 
future. Who knows ? Anyhow, it’s up to me not to 
leave a stone unturned. . . . And I’m curious 





THE DUPLICATE KEY 


147 

. . . damn curious. ... I’d like to 

know . . .” 

A street door closed, with a faint, soft creak, and 
the lean figure of the young detective slipped away 
into the hot darkness. 


CHAPTER XVI 
Rosamond Curwood 

A CLEAR, bright day followed the heavy thunder 

^ shower which had occurred late in the night. 
Peter, as he boarded the train for Hobart Falls, hoped 
that it was an omen. 

He had just had time for a few minutes’ talk with 
O’Malley, in which he gave his partner instructions 
about reaching him if anything of importance should 
transpire during the day. 

“Better wire me at Hobart Falls,” he said. 
“Have it left in the telegraph office to be called for. 
I can’t tell where I’ll be stopping and I can’t think 
of any other way I’d be sure of getting it. I don’t 
believe there’ll be anything.” 

After that, he had hastily called Donald Morris on 
the telephone and explained briefly that he was rush¬ 
ing out of town on a new scent. 

“Another false clue?” asked Morris, wearily, and 
Peter saw, in his mind’s eye, the pale, tired face of his 
client. 

“May be,” said Peter, in a friendly, hopeful tone. 
“But you never can tell. We mustn’t miss a trick 
and I’ve found something I’m bound to follow up. 
It may lead to nothing, of course, but there’s always a 

148 


ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


149 

chance. I’m in a deuce of a rush just now and I’ll 
have to wait till I get back to tell you about it. 
Don’t get discouraged. While there’s life, there’s 

hope. While there’s life-” he repeated to himself 

as he hung up the receiver—“ I wish to God I could be 
sure that Mary Blake is still alive. Well, any¬ 
way-” 

He made the nine-thirty train for Hobart Falls 
with four minutes to spare. “Which is enough for 
anybody,” thought Peter, as he watched the ugly 
houses and factories slip by. 

The railroad ran northward on the west side of the 
Hudson, for Peter had ascertained Hobart Falls to 
be situated in the Catskill Mountains. After a time 
the train slipped from behind a range of hills into a 
tunnel and out again, and Peter, startled from his 
deep absorption, saw below him the great river, 
shining blue and silver, in the morning sun. No one 
who has ever seen it thus suddenly could fail to be 
impressed by its beauty and grandeur. Peter, city- 
bred as he was, was strongly affected by the sight 
of the blue-green wooded hills, lapping and over¬ 
lapping, and the great, serene river winding in be¬ 
tween. 

His thoughts ran—“I wonder if I’ll be lucky 
enough to find Walter Lord, and what he’ll know. 

. Gee, those rocks are corking, and those big, 
soft pines. ... It was a long while ago—maybe 
twenty years since they wore that kind of clothes. 
. . . That’s a house, way up on that mountain! 





THE SINISTER MARK 


150 

Must have a ripping view. . . . And he may be 

dead by now. . . . But he mustn’t dare to be— 

I need him too much. . . . ” And so his mind 

ran on, alternating between hope and discourage¬ 
ment, through the hours that followed. 

He had to change cars twice, each time to a road 
of narrower gauge. “The next’ll be roller skates, I 
should think,” he said to himself as he jerked and 
bumped along in the little mountain train. 

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when 
they ran in to the tiny, ugly, red-painted station of 
Hobart Falls. They had passed through a number 
of stations, vociferous with red-faced hackmen and 
seething with fat, jewelled, and overdressed Hebrews 
of the middle class. This little place was quite 
different. There were no big hotels or boarding 
houses in the immediate vicinity, and so few people 
that only two trains a day stopped at Hobart Falls. 
The loungers about the station were obviously 
country-bred and American. 

Peter quickly approached one of them and asked 
where the telegraph office could be found. He 
wished to ascertain at once if there was anything from 
O’Malley. 

The man jerked his thumb in the direction of the 
waiting room. “In there,” he said, briefly, “ticket 
office,” and, with stupid, bovine eyes, watched the 
stranger as he disappeared inside the station. 

“Nothing ain’t come fer nobody to-day,” said the 
agent, in reply to Peter’s inquiry. 



ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


151 

Peter stepped swiftly out again upon the platform, 
and looked about him. Blue hills and valleys sur¬ 
rounded the little station on every side. In the 
middle distance could be seen one or two small farm¬ 
houses, and in the immediate foreground, drawn up 
close to the platform, was a decrepit, dingy Ford. 
A long, lank man, sitting at the wheel, glanced up at 
Peter expectantly. 

“Is this for hire?” asked Peter, indicating the 
ancient car with a motion of his head. “And can 
you take me to the village?” 

The driver grinned at a man who was leaning 
against the edge of the doorway, and spat, generously, 
over the wheel. 

“Git in,” he said, laconically. 

Peter threaded himself into the back seat, and the 
weary flivver, with a heavy groan, started down the 
empty road. 

“Any p’tickeler place?” asked the man at the 
wheel, turning his weather-beaten face, and looking 
Peter over from head to foot. 

“I think I’ll want to spend the night here,” 
answered Peter, a trifle dubiously. “Is there a 
hotel?” 

The man laughed. “This ain’t no metrolopus,” 
he vouchsafed, “but I guess the Widder Lord’ll put 
you up for the night, if you’d like to go there.” 

The “Widder Lord.” Peter’s heart sank, but he 
only said, “That’ll do all right, I guess. Take me 
there, will you?” 


THE SINISTER MARK 


152 

At that moment they turned a sharp corner, and 
Peter saw why the driver had grinned at the lounger 
on the station platform. The village, what there was 
of it, was not four minutes’ walk from the station, 
but quite out of sight, hidden by the small, wooded 
shoulder of a hill. 

It was a sleepy, quiet little place, shut in by roll¬ 
ing upland. There was one long street, or, rather, a 
wide place in the road, on each side of which were 
small, old village houses, mostly painted white, with 
green shutters. There were two stores, one of which 
was also the post office, and a blacksmith’s shop. 
In front of the latter stood an old-fashioned buggy 
with empty shafts. From within came the ringing 
clink of metal upon metal. Save for an old dog 
wandering down the street, and a few loose hens 
dusting themselves in the road, there was no sign or 
sound of life. 

“ Rip Van Winkle might have taken his twenty- 
year nap right here in the middle of the street, in¬ 
stead of going to all the trouble of climbing up one of 
those mountains,” thought Peter. “No wonder 
there aren’t any Jews here. This place sure would 
cramp their style, and then some. . . . Wild- 

goose chase I’ve come on, anyway, I feel it in my 
bones. Walter Lord is probably as dead as the rest 
of the village.” The silence got on his nerves and he 
spoke to the driver. “Think the Widow Lord will 
be awake when we get there?” he asked. 

The man turned a sardonic, screwed-up eye upon 


ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


i 53 

him. “’S next house,” he said, pointing, “and well 
be there in one shake of a lamb’s tail. What’d she 
be asleep this time of day fer?” 

Peter looked without much interest at the house 
indicated. It was old and gray and weather-beaten 
but had evidently once been the considerable house 
of Hobart Falls. Low and rambling, it faced the 
street, standing a few feet back, among some ragged, 
flowering shrubs. 

Suddenly Peter’s eye lightened and he reached 
over and caught the driver’s shoulder. 

“Stop here,” he said, sharply. “This is the place 
where I want to stop.” 

“Sure it’s the place ye want to stop,” repeated the 
driver, disgustedly. “Ain’t I been tellin’ ye? 
This is the Widder Lord’s.” 

“Oh, yes. I forgot for the moment.” The light 
faded from Peter’s eyes. “The ‘Widder Lord’s’,” he 
muttered, inwardly. “The man’s dead, of course. 
However-” 

He glanced again at the object which had raised a 
sudden hope within him. At the far end of the 
house, standing out at right angles from it, and 
partly hidden by vines, was an old battered sign: 

WALTER LORD 

PHOTOGRAPHER 

“I’ve got the right house, anyway, and without 
any lost motion,” thought Peter. “And that’s the 
luck of the Irish—as far as it goes.” 



THE SINISTER MARK 


i 54 

He paid the driver the “two bits” suggested as 
the amount of the fare. The sum was paid so un¬ 
concernedly that the driver lingered while Peter 
stepped quickly up to the front door and rang the 
old jangling bell. A man as free as that with money 
didn't come to Hobart Falls so often. 

Peter had made up his mind that he would spend 
the night there, in any case, if the “Widder Lord” 
would take him in. He knew he would have to take 
a taxi (he thought in city terms) to Kortenkill, two 
stations below, to catch the midnight train, which 
did not stop at Hobart Falls, if he were to go back to 
town that night, and the thought of bumping over 
the bad roads in a pre-historic flivver, after being up 
most of the previous night, made no appeal to him. 

“I’ll make her take me in,” thought Peter, and 
rang the bell again. 

“Anybody want me?” 

The voice came from just over Peter’s head, but he 
could see no one, for the roof of the little old Dutch 
porch hid the speaker. 

“Who wants me, Josh?” the voice repeated. 

“Nobuddy wants you, Walt,” the driver in the 
road bawled out. “’S a stranger wants to spend 
the night. ’S yer sister-in-law to home?” 

Peter’s heart leaped harder, if not so far, as his long 
legs. One jump, and he was on the narrow brick 
walk, looking up at an open window from which 
protruded the quaintest old head he thought he had 
ever seen. 


ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


iS 5 

The face was that of a man of seventy or more, 
but the hair and long sweeping moustache were 
brilliantly black. The hair was thin and carefully 
brushed forward above the ears, in a bygone style. 
Two little twinkling eyes looked down from either 
side of a long, thin, pointed nose—looked down at 
Peter in mild surprise. 

“You wanted to stay the night, Mr. — uh-” 

“Clancy,” Peter supplied, eagerly. “Yes. I 
want to look around Hobart Falls a little. Could 

you-This is Mr. Walter Lord, isn’t it ? ” He glanced 

aside, as if for verification, to the half-hidden sign. 

“That’s me,” replied the owner of the craning 
head, with a smile. “That’s me, all right.” 

Peter’s heart settled down to a steady beat. 

“Well, Mr. Lord,” he said, “it’s just like this. 
I’ve got a little business here in Hobart Falls, and I 
want to spend the night. Josh,” he spoke as if the 
driver, who still lingered, were an old and intimate 
friend, “Josh thought Mrs. Lord would take me in. 
I’m sorry she’s away, but couldn’t you manage to put 
me up? It’d be a great favour.” 

“Aw, take him in, Walt,” urged Josh, from the 
road. “ ’N let me know if you’ll need a hack again. 
Mister. I got the best car in the Falls.” 

Peter was anxiously watching the face above him. 

“Well, you see, Miranda not being here, and all— 
makes it kind of hard. She’s awful particular about 
the linen closet, and I don’t know what sheets-” 

“Never mind the sheets,” Peter interrupted, 






THE SINISTER MARK 


156 

quickly. “I’ll sleep on the floor, if necessary. I’ve 
just got to stay to-night, Mr. Lord, and if you don’t 
take me in-” 

‘‘Wait a second, and I’ll come down,” said Walter 
Lord, disappearing from the window with the abrupt¬ 
ness of a Jack-in-the-box. 

“He’ll take ye, all right,” Josh called out, encourag¬ 
ingly, as he turned his little car. “Lemme know 
when ye want me agin,” and was gone, in a cloud of 
dust. 

“If you wouldn’t mind coming around this way, 
Mr. Clancy-” 

The entire figure of Walter Lord disclosed itself at 
the corner of the house, and the figure was in strict 
accord with the face. Slender, bent, and old it was, 
but almost jauntily clad. Light gray trousers, some¬ 
what stained with chemicals, were carefully pressed 
into a knife-like crease down the front. A double- 
breasted waistcoat of starched white duck sported a 
long festoon of old worn gold watch-chain. Around 
his neck was a standing collar with tall points, and so 
large that it made his thin neck look, so Peter 
thought, like a lily in a pot. About the collar was 
tied a long, black “shoe-string” tie of silk. He was 
just settling his thin shoulders into a wide-lapelled, 
square-tailed, black broadcloth coat which he had 
obviously donned for the occasion. 

“Come this way, Mr. Clancy,” he repeated. 
“The front door sticks in this warm, damp weather, 
for we scarcely ever use it. All our friends come in 




ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


i 57 

here,” and with a gracious, hospitable gesture, he 
held open the side door for Peter to pass. 

Peter had just time to notice that there was a small 
outside stairway leading to the second floor, built on 
at this end of the house, and that, upon the second 
floor, there was a fairly good-sized slanting window, 
and on the roof a skylight. “The photographic 
studio/' thought Peter, as he followed Lord into the 
house. As he crossed the threshold, he unostenta¬ 
tiously dropped his small handbag just inside the 
door. 

“I’m afraid I can’t make you very comfortable, 
Mr. Clancy,’’ said the old man, doubtfully, drawing 
forward a sagging rocker with an elaborate “tidy” 
on the back. “Won’t you sit down? My sister has 
gone over to Letty Bowen’s just for the day and to 
spend the night. She’ll be home in the morning. 
Too bad, too bad. There’s only a cold supper. 
D’you mind cold suppers ? I rather like ’em myself, 
this hot weather—and I said to Miranda, ‘I’ll be as 
happy as a clam at high tide.’ But I didn’t expect 
to have a visitor. (Let me take your hat.) Not that 
I’m not always glad of company. Miranda says 
I’m worse than misery. (Misery loves company, 
you know. Her joke.) But I do like to see new 
people—new faces. Keeps you young, don’t you 
think?—Oh, I almost forgot. Do have a cigar-’’ 

He slipped one thin, stained hand into his breast 
pocket and drew out a Pittsburg stogie of the longest, 
thinnest, and stogiest type. Peter shuddered in- 



THE SINISTER MARK 


158 

I 

wardly and ventured to ask if he might smoke 
cigarettes instead. “Perhaps you would have one 
yourself, sir,” he added, noting a funny little twinkle 
in the old man’s eye. 

“Well—you know-” Walter Lord spoke with 

slight embarrassment, at the same time reaching out 
an eager hand, “I must say I do prefer ’em to cigars, 
but Miranda, well, she kind of feels that—that cigars 
are more suitable for a man of my age—and so-” 

He lit one of Peter’s cigarettes, inhaled a long, 
delicious whiflF, and smiled gently. 

“Dear old duck,” thought Peter, “with the heart 
of a kid, and scared to death of his sister-in-law. 
Bet she’s a Tartar. Thank heaven she isn’t here.” 

Peter leaned his head back against a large yellow 
butterfly worked in wool on a black background, 
crossed his long legs and smoked leisurely, with the 
air of a man at ease. 

“There must be a lot of good fishing around here,” 
he remarked, taking a long shot at a possible hobby 
of the man he had determined should be his host. 
“Crossed a lot of likely looking streams as we came 
up through the mountains.” 

He saw, by the expression of Walter Lord’s face, 
that he had made a bull’s-eye. The little man leaned 
forward and spoke with enthusiasm. 

“There’s the best fishing to be found in the Cats¬ 
kills just beyond that meadow over there,” he 
pointed out of the window. “You can’t see the 
stream from here, on account of the tall grass, but 




ROSAMOND CURWOOD 


i 59 

it’s fine, open fishing and just full of trout. Of 
course they’re not very large, but along at the be¬ 
ginning of the season I caught one that weighed two 
pounds. Yes, sir. He was a beauty. And there 
are more of ’em, if you know the pools. I could 
show you-” 

After that, Peter had things pretty much his own 
way. The talk ran largely on flies and tackle. 
(“ He was sure to be a fly fisherman, if he fished at all, 
the good old sport,” thought Peter, smiling at his 
host.) Peter told a story of some wonderful fishing 
he had once had, up in Nova Scotia, and Lord capped 
it with an experience of his in the Adirondacks when 
he was a boy—and so the minutes flew. 

There was no further question as to Peter’s spend¬ 
ing the night there. The lonely old man was too 
eager for society, and too trusting and unsophisti¬ 
cated to raise any objections to the harbouring of an 
unheralded guest, particularly since the guest was a 
fisherman, and a fly fisherman, at that. 

If Walter Lord had any idea that Mr. Clancy had 
come to Hobart Falls with a purpose other than to 
investigate the fishing possibilities of that region, his 
curiosity on the subject was completely held in check 
by his innate courtesy. 

In the first few minutes of their acquaintance. 
Peter’s quick mind had invented several stories to> 
account for his presence there. He hesitated be¬ 
tween the advisability of being a doctor, seeking a 
good site for a sanitarium. (“For patients troubled 



160 THE SINISTER MARK 

with insomnia, this would be ideal,” Peter grinned to 
himself.) Or, perhaps, it would awaken more sym¬ 
pathy to have a young wife who was ill, and needed 
mountain air and seclusion. 

But before he had talked with the old man very 
long Peter conceived a deep distaste for subterfuge. 
“Dammit all, I won’t lie to the good old scout unless 
he makes me,” he said to himself, as he watched 
Walter Lord making his fussy little preparations for 
supper, and listened to his constant flow of pleasant 
chatter as he passed back and forth from the kitchen. 

“Cold lamb and some of Miranda’s currant jelly,” 
he said, as he placed a blue platter and a sauce dish 
filled with a truncated cone of wobbling, clear crimson 
upon a small table near the west window. “Beauti¬ 
ful, rich colour where the sun strikes it, isn’t it ? ” He 
stepped back to note the effect. “Let me see, there’s 
a salad, too. Lettuce from our own garden, Mr. 
Clancy. Pretty late for lettuce, but I plant it right 
along through the summer and it does real well. 
Oh, I almost forgot the pot cheese.” 

He bustled out in the kitchen and presently re¬ 
turned with a crisp salad and a yellow bowl brim¬ 
ming with creamy cheese. 

“The coffee’s almost ready, and it’ll be good, too,” 
he chuckled. “Miranda thinks strong coffee, three 
times a day, is bad for my nerves, but I made this 
myself, and I’ll bet you won’t get a better cup of 
coffee at the St. Denis Hotel.” (Peter had told him 
that his home was in New York.) “I used to go 


ROSAMOND CURWOOD 161 

there quite a bit when I was younger. It’s a grand, 
good place, don’t you think so, Mr. Clancy?” 

His tone was so wistful, so full of pleasant pictures 
and recollections, that Peter hadn’t the heart to tell 
him that the old St. Denis had vanished long ago. 
He only said that it certainly was one of the best 
places in New York, and let it go at that. 

In a few minutes they were seated on either side 
of the little table near the window, a simple but boun¬ 
tiful meal spread between them. The westering sun 
gleamed on the quaint old blue-and-white china and 
on the jug of larkspur and madonna lilies which 
Walter Lord had moved to one side of the table so 
that he could look at Peter as they ate and talked. 

Peter had but one object, for the moment, and 
that was to captivate the mind of his host, a feat 
which his experience and ready Irish wit made easy 
of accomplishment. He told some stories which 
brought tears of laughter to Walter Lord’s little, 
twinkling eyes, and made him rock backward and 
forward in his chair. In order to invite the old man’s 
confidence, Peter told some of his early experiences. 
Truthful stories they were, in the main, only slightly 
embellished, and most effective in their skilful 
blending of humour and pathos—but in them was no 
hint of Peter’s present profession. 

By the time supper was finished, Peter had 
achieved a footing of such friendly intimacy that he 
was allowed to help clear away. And all the while 
he had been studying the little old man, whose 


THE SINISTER MARK 


162 

quaint appearance would have been simply ridiculous 
to one less sympathetic than Peter Clancy. To him, 
the dyed hair and the jauntily worn old-fashioned 
clothes spoke aloud of a spirit of undying youthful¬ 
ness and simplicity, a heart kept young by the love 
of all things beautiful, a mind so filled with imagina¬ 
tion and artistic longings that it had selected a thing 
as impractical as photography for its profession. 

Peter thought of the little, sleepy village and the 
emptiness of the wooded hills, and could imagine 
how few were the sitters who came to Walter Lord’s 
old photographic studio. And he wondered, in that 
remote spot, what incentive kept the light gray 
trousers so carefully creased, the linen vest so stiffiy 
starched, the old, worn broadcloth coat so im¬ 
maculately brushed. 

“He must be like ‘St. Ives’,” Peter concluded, at 
last. “Since there’s no one else to dress for, he 
‘dresses for God.’” 

They had left things tidy in the kitchen, and now, 
at ease in their pleasant relationship of host and wel¬ 
come guest, they sat beside the open west window, 
smoking limitless cigarettes and talking endlessly. 

Peter, looking always for an opening for the intro¬ 
duction of the subject which was uppermost in his 
mind, carefully guided the old man into speaking 
further of himself and his pursuits, a matter present¬ 
ing no difficulties whatever, for Walter Lord had 
many hobbies and rode them with an enthusiasm 
which age could not abate. 


ROSAMOND CURWOOD 163 

He learned, among other things, that the Lords had 
once been well off, but that the family estate had 
dwindled before Walter and his older brother, Tom, 
came into possession, and that after Tom had died 
and left his elderly widow and the remainder of the 
property to Walter's care, it had suffered still more. 

“ I did the best I could,” said the old man, wistfully, 
“but there it was—I always felt that I could have 
made more money if I could have gone to New York 
—but Miranda—and the old house—they seemed 
sort of to anchor me.” 

“And your photograph studio, Mr. Lord. I 
should think you’d have hated to leave that,” said 
Peter, at last boldly approaching the subject deepest 
in his thoughts. “ By the way, speaking of photog¬ 
raphy”—he smiled and leaned forward across the 
table, confidentially—“you may be surprised, but 
I’ve seen some of your work. It’s bully, too!” 

“What?” cried Walter Lord, excitedly. “You 
don’t say so, Mr. Clancy. Some of my work in 
New York! Now I wonder who it could have been. 
I’ve only taken pictures of people around here—and 
there aren’t so many—it’s never been what you could 

call a paying profession, and Miranda- But never 

mind. Whose picture was it that you saw? And 
how did you know that I--” 

“By George, I believe I’ve got it with me,” said 
Peter, slapping his pockets, the while his heart beat 
quickly. Now or never—“Here it is, sure enough,” 
he added, gleefully—and laid the small carte-de- 






THE SINISTER MARK 


564 

visite, the sole trophy of his midnight quest, face up¬ 
ward on the table. 

There was a moment of suspense while the old man 
carefully adjusted his glasses and took the old photo¬ 
graph up in his hand. Peter watched his face, nar¬ 
rowly. It had been many years. Would he- 

“Why! Why!” exclaimed Walter Lord, in tones 
of deep surprise. “Why, how, in Heaven’s name, 
Mr. Clancy, did you get a picture of—of little Rosa¬ 
mond Curwood?” 



CHAPTER XVII 
Another Photograph 

13 OSAMOND CURWOOD!” Peter’s heart skip¬ 
ped a beat and then raced on again. Could 
he have been mistaken? But no! He had found the 
picture in her apartment, and it could be no other 
than Mary Blake. He was sure, positive. . . . 

And Curwood ? With a click, his mind fastened the 
connection. . The name he had written in his note¬ 
book—the name in the old set of Shakespeare—Cur¬ 
wood. Winthrop Curwood! 

Though he had been staggered for an instant, Peter 
resumed the conversation with scarcely a perceptible 
pause: 

“It’s Winthrop Curwood’s daughter, isn’t it?” he 
said, smoothly, watching closely the old man’s ex¬ 
pression. 

There was immediate and unqualified acquiescence 
in the eyes of Walter Lord. “Yes. But where did 
you get it?” he asked again, wonderingly. “I 
thought-” 

“Yes?” Peter encouraged, as the old man hesi¬ 
tated. 

“It seems odd to me that you should have her 
picture.” 

165 




THE SINISTER MARK 


166 

There was a slight emphasis on the last pronoun, 
and for the first time Walter Lord looked at Peter 
with almost a hint of—was it suspicion?—in his 
eyes. 

“I just ran across it in an old desk,” Peter hastened 
to explain, ‘‘and I kept it because it's such a pretty 
kid, and the photograph so well taken. Looks as if 
she was just going to speak—and you can almost 
hear her laugh. I don’t know the original-” 

“But you knew who it was.” Lord’s tone was 
puzzled. 

“Yes. I knew who it was,” said Peter, easily. 
“Beautiful little thing, isn’t she? It was a fine sub¬ 
ject for you, and I must say you’ve done it justice.” 

Peter had struck a very vulnerable spot. Walter 
Lord’s faint feeling of suspicion, if so strong a term 
may be used, melted away before the frank praise of 
his work. 

“Not bad, not bad at all,” he said, smiling now, 
“and, as you say, she was a beautiful child. The 
most beautiful child I ever saw,” dreamily, “except 
her mother—Anne Blakeslie.” 

“Anne Blakeslie—Anne Blake-” Peter re¬ 

peated to himself, thoughtfully. Aloud he said: 

“So you knew her mother, too? Isn’t it strange 
how things come about ? The world is a little place, 
after all.” 

The banality of this last remark did not strike 
Walter Lord. Instead, he seemed to think it quite 
an effective sentence. 




ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH 167 

“The world is small, Mr. Clancy. Yes, the world 
is a little place, after all,” he agreed. “Here you 
drop into Hobart Falls so unexpectedly, and come to 
my house, which you couldn’t possibly have heard 
about—and all the while you have a picture of one of 
Anne Blakeslie’s children in your pocket.” 

His innocent wonder made Peter feel almost 
ashamed. But the matter was too important for 
squeamishness, he assured himself. That last re¬ 
mark— 

“So there was more than one child,” said Peter, 
quickly. “Were they all as beautiful as this—this 
Rosamond ?” 

“There were only two,” answered Lord, reminis¬ 
cently. “Two twin girls. The other was named 
for her mother.” 

“Anne?” 

“Yes. Anne and Rosamond,” said the old man, 
gently. 

“Did you know them well?” asked Peter, and 
added—“It's such a funny coincidence, altogether. 
Makes me sort of curious about them.” 

Walter Lord leaned back in his chair, folded his 
arms, and gazed out at the red gold of the summer 
sunset. 

“Yes,” he said, softly. “Yes, I knew them well. 
That is, I knew the children—and their mother—I 
knew her best of all-” 

There was something in Walter Lord’s quaint old 
face which kept Peter silent. He could not interrupt 



i68 


THE SINISTER MARK 


with the questions which were burning to be asked. 
He would let the story come in its own way. . . . 

After a moment the old man went on: 

“Yes/’ with a little sigh, “I knew Anne Blakeslie 
—you might say I’d always known her. She lived 
on a farm, up back in the hills, and we both went to 
the little brick school house down at the end of the 
village. Guess you didn’t see it. It’s just around 
the turn of the road.” 

“No,” said Peter, softly, so as not to break the 
thread of the old man’s thought. 

“Yes—we saw each other every day—until I went 
away to school—and when Tom died, and I had to 
come home to stay—Anne Blakeslie had grown up in 
the meantime, and she was beautiful—beautiful in 
soul as well as in body—or, perhaps, it wouldn’t have 
happened-” 

A purple cloud drifted across the setting sun. Its 
shadow fell softly upon the old face. 

“What was it that happened?” prompted the 
younger man, gently. 

“Why,” Walter Lord roused himself with an effort, 
‘it was about that time she must have come to know 
Winthrop Curwood. It’s sort of an odd story. 
Maybe you’d like to hear-” 

“I would.” Peter’s answer should have left no 
room for doubt. 

He was conscious, as the old man proceeded with 
the story, that it was the drama of Walter Lord’s life. 
Sometimes he forgot Peter altogether; at other times 






ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH 169 

he was aware of the younger man only as a ship that 
passes in the night. He spoke him in passing. It 
did not matter how much he told. They would never 
see each other again, in all human probability. As 
one sometimes may tell a stranger the thoughts of an 
over-burdened heart, thoughts which would for ever 
remain hidden from the nearest and dearest, so 
Walter Lord told Peter, without himself realizing it, 
the story of his life’s tragedy—the story of Anne 
Blakeslie. 

“I never knew when she saw Winthrop Curwood 
first. Not that it matters.” The old voice was low 
and gentle. Throughout the pronoun “she” was 
spoken with such reverence as to suggest that it 
would have been written with a capital—as if, in¬ 
stead of Anne Blakeslie, a deity were its antecedent— 
“She must have known him pretty well when I saw 
them together for the first time. ... I was going 
up to her house one day, soon after I got back from 
school, and. . . . They were standing just 

where a little wood road from up the mountain comes 
in to the sawmill road, about two miles west of the 

village.They didn’t see me, though I was 

in plain sight, a hundred yards away. . . . He 

was standing with his hat off—and a look on his 
face. ... It was a fine face, too. . . . And 

just then he reached out, sort of uncertainly, and 
took her hand. ... I thought I’d better go 
home, and come back to see Anne some other day— 
perhaps. But she caught sight of me before I’d gone 


THE SINISTER MARK 


170 

more than a few steps, and called to me. I went 
back, of course—and I saw him again, climbing up 
the steep road, it was hardly more than a trail, and 
feeling ahead of him with a long stick. It was then 
I saw, from the way he moved, that he was 
blind-” 

“Blind!” echoed Peter, aghast! “Blind.” 

“Yes,” said the old man, sadly. “He was stone 
blind. Anne told me about him, at once, with tears 
standing in her eyes. He had a little house over on 
the far side of the mountain, and lived there all alone. 
He had come there, she said, while he could still see a 
little, and built the place with some help from a man 
down in Job’s Corners, who still brought up his sup¬ 
plies. Nobody knew anything about him except it 
was easy to see, she said, that he was a gentleman, 
and educated. And indeed he was. I saw him, my¬ 
self, several times after they—after they were mar¬ 
ried.” 

He paused on that word, and the golden sun, free¬ 
ing itself from the passing cloud, lit up the kind old 
face, with its pitiful, dyed hair, the quaintly youthful 
garments, and made of them a thing touching, ten¬ 
der, wistful in its appeal. He went on, almost im¬ 
mediately: 

“He was a wonderful-looking man, tall and 
straight; and his voice—I don’t know how to de¬ 
scribe it. It was clear and deep, like the sound of a 
big bell. . . . But I don’t think it was any of 

these things that most appealed to Anne Blakeslie. 





ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH 


171 

It was his helplessness, his pitiful blindness. She 
talked to me about it quite often that fall. I knew 
by that time that there was no hope—I mean that I 
knew, by then, that she loved this stranger, and she 
said I was the only person she could talk freely to. 
Her father was a hard man, and she the only child. 

. . She told me, at last, that she was going to 

marry Winthrop Curwood whether he wanted her 
to or not. She was high-spirited in those days— 
headstrong, you might call it—and, when she’d 
made up her mind definitely that Curwood should 

not live alone, she- You may not understand this 

part of the story, Mr. Clancy. Her father didn’t, 
and cut her off completely—refused to see her, and 
left the farm and everything he had to a distant 
cousin, who lives there to-day—a selfish wretch!” 
For the first time there was bitterness in the old 
man’s tone. Peter said, with quiet sympathy: 

“I’ll understand, you may be sure of that. Tell 
me what happened.” 

“Well, one night, just at dusk, Anne Blakeslie 
climbed this side of the mountain for the last time. 
She took some clothing with her, and a few other 
things. . . . She didn’t tell me much, but I can 

imagine—knowing her. . . . She went in, 

quietly, and told him she had come to stay. He— 
he protested. He pointed out the sacrifice she was 
making. She overruled all his objections—as Anne 
Blakeslie would know how to do—and then-” 

The room was growing dark. A big white moth 








i 7 2 THE SINISTER MARK 

flew in through the open window and fluttered softly 
among the lilies. 

“The next morning they went together down the 
far side of the mountain, and were married by Father 
O’Connell. . . . Anne sent me a letter and I 

went to see them. I was the only one, of all the 
people hereabouts, and I went only when Anne sent 
for me, which wasn’t often. Somehow, Curwood, in 
his quiet, dignified way, made me feel—well, any¬ 
way, I never went except when Anne needed me. 
But in those few times it seemed to me that they 
were managing very well. They seemed quite com¬ 
fortable as long as Curwood lived. . . . He was 

an Englishman, I think. At least, he spoke differ¬ 
ently from us. I’m quite sure he must have been 
English, though Anne never told me anything about 
him. He did not wish it, was all she said. If she 
was satisfied, it was enough for me. 

“I found out, later, when he died, that he had 
only—what they call an annuity, which ended with 
his life. Anne had known it all along and had saved 
what she could, which wasn’t a great deal. The two 
little girls were growing up, and it took something to 
care for them. They came down here to the little 
old brick school house every day for several winters, 
and I used to see them often.” 

Though he did not say so, Peter knew full well that 
Walter Lord had taken pains to keep an eye on the 
children of Anne Blakeslie. 

“They were interesting children, very interesting. 


ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH 


i 73 

All children and young people are, of course; but 
these two were more so than any I ever came in con¬ 
tact with. Rosamond was beautiful beyond any¬ 
thing I, or anybody, ever saw, I think. I used to de¬ 
light in taking pictures of her. I could show you a 
dozen up in the gallery. And she was always more 
than glad to sit for me. She knew pretty well how 
she looked. Didn’t need any one to tell her, and 
who could blame anything so lovely as that for know¬ 
ing it was lovely? Might as well blame a water-lily 
that looks at itself all day in a pond. . . . But 

Anne, poor little Anne—she was always my favour- 

• ^ yy 

ite. 

Peter glanced up in surprise. That Anne Blake 
should have appealed, even as a child, to any one, 
least of all to this gentle, sweet old chap, was a de¬ 
cidedly new thought to him. Perhaps it was just be¬ 
cause he was so gentle, Peter reminded himself, and 

because she was the daughter of Anne Blakeslie- 

Walter Lord went on, with a little laugh— 

“She was always an odd little thing. I remember 
one time when Anne sent for me—her father was very 
ill; she had heard of it, and wanted me to take him a 
message. Well, I went up there, and little Anne, 
who must have been about five years old, happened 
to meet me, just at the edge of the woods, near the 
house. She was shy, and started to run, but I called 
her and told her my name and gave her some candy, 
one of those long peppermint sticks we used to like. 
She took it and thanked me very prettily, and then 




THE SINISTER MARK 


174 

she ran on ahead, and I heard her say to her mother, 
in such a funny little awed tone, ‘Mother! Mr. 
God’s coming to see you.’” 

Peter laughed and the old man chuckled softly. 

“She certainly was an odd little thing—Anne. 
She was shy, naturally, and was not as fond of coming 
up into the gallery as her sister was, because she 
was afraid that I would want to take her picture, a 
thing she absolutely refused to let me do. I did en¬ 
tice her into the gallery sometimes, with books 
and candy, and some of the other little things 
that children love. I had an idea that it might be 
nice to get a photograph of her for her mother. I 
had plenty of Rosamond, but had never been able 

to overcome Anne’s prejudice against sitting for 
>> 

me. 

“What a funny idea for a kid to have,’’ said Peter, 
thoughtfully. “I know some boys would almost as 
soon go to a dentist as to a photographer, but I never 
knew a girl, of any age, who didn’t love it.’’ 

“Well,” said Walter Lord, slowly, “Anne had her 
reason, poor little thing. She was high-strung, and 

sensitive almost to the point of obsession about- 

But there”—he broke off—“she might have 
trusted me. I’d never have put the poor child— 
Anne Blakeslie’s child—to shame. . . . And I 

finally got what I was after.” Even though many 
years had passed, there was a little triumph in his 
voice at the recollection. “I got her to playing with 
a doll in the sitter’s chair, and I caught her one day 





ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH 


i 7 S 

in just the position I wanted. Would you like to 

see? I know just where-” 

“I certainly would/’ said Peter. 

Walter Lord jumped quickly up from his chair, 
threw the end of a cigarette out of the window, and 
disappeared up a small back stairway which led 
directly from the room. Peter heard him walking 
about overhead for a moment. Presently he reap¬ 
peared, with something in his hand. 

He laid it down, and lighted a lamp on the table, 
for the room was now almost dark. 

“There she is,” he said, leaning over Peter’s 
shoulder, and pointing to the little old photograph. 
“And, whatever chance has happened to her, I’ll 
wager that’s the only photograph in existence of Anne 
Curwood.” 



CHAPTER XVIII 

Rosamond’s Secret 

DETER took the yellowed card in his hands and 
A looked at it long and eagerly. For nearly a 
month past he would have been ready to pay almost 
any price for a portrait of Anne Blake, and now, here 
in his hand, he held the thing he had been wishing 
for—and, for his purpose, it might as well have been a 
piece of blank pasteboard—or so he thought at the 
moment. 

The child face of Anne Curwood was shown in pro¬ 
file, facing the left. The tell-tale mark, which had 
probably changed but little in the succeeding years, 
the birthmark by which Peter hoped to identify her 
without shadow of doubt, appeared not at all. 
This was the way in which Walter Lord had shielded 
a child’s sensitiveness. He had, with careful pur¬ 
pose, selected a view which showed the little face 
unmarred. 

That there was a hidden disfigurement Peter had 
no reasonable doubt, both because of what Lord had 
already said and because of his own previous knowl¬ 
edge, but he must make sure. He must force Lord 
to tell him. 

“Why, she’s a beautiful little kid,” Peter said, 

176 



ROSAMOND’S SECRET 


177 

abruptly. “I thought, from what you said, she 
must be as ugly as the dickens. Why in the world 
was she so funny about letting you-” 

“Poor little thing! It wasn’t funny,” said the old 
man, compassionately. “If either you or I had the 
same reason, we’d have felt the same way.” 

“But I don’t see-” Peter began. 

“No, you don’t,” said Lord, quickly. “I took 
very good pains that no one should see it.” 

“See—what?” persisted Peter. 

“Why,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “the little 
thing was born with a dreadful mark on the other 
side of her face, the right side.” 

(“I knew it was the right side,” thought Peter, 
swiftly. “That would have been the side in shadow, 
when the cabman saw Anne Blake standing before 
her sister’s dressing table. I told O’Malley it must 
be the right side.” He was thinking this even while 
he listened attentively.) 

“That’s why I took her in profile,” Lord was say¬ 
ing—“so it wouldn’t show, you see. The child was 
painfully sensitive about it and so was her mother, 
though of course not to the same extent. I wanted 
them both to be pleased, and I knew Anne Blakeslie 

must hate to be reminded of—of-Oh, Mr. Clancy, 

such a horrible experience. ... I hate, even 
now, to think of it.” 

Peter did not say, “Don’t think of it, then.” 
He wanted to hear, to learn every detail. He did 
not want to miss even a remote chance. So he 







THE SINISTER MARK 


178 

looked eagerly, inquiringly, into the old man’s face, 
but said nothing. 

“It was awful, terrible,” Walter Lord went on as 
Peter knew he must now that he was fully started. 
“It wasn’t so very long before Anne and Rosamond 
were born. She was—she had gone into the woods 
to pick blackberries or something I think. . . . 

There was a sort of clearing behind some big rocks 
not so very far from the house. . . . And there 
—I learned it all much later—she came upon a 
vicious, half-witted tramp, who was harbouring up 
on the mountain. He was squatting on the ground, 
dressing a chicken he’d stolen, and she didn’t see him 
until she was right beside him. . . . He looked 
at her—and leaped up. She was a woman, beautiful 
—alone, and, as he thought, far from help. He 
bent over, and crept toward her, with his hands all 
bloody. . . . She screamed—and—and he caught 

her by the throat-” 

The old man lifted his clenched hands and pressed 
them, quivering, against his forehead. Peter sat in 
horrified silence. 

“If she hadn’t screamed”—Walter Lord went on, 
after a moment—“if she hadn’t been able to fight, 

and keep on screaming—God”- Again he paused, 

but after a long, shuddering breath, continued— 
“Curwood was inside the house, but he heard her. 
He had almost a sixth sense of direction, and all 
his senses were preternaturally acute, but he was 
blind! Think of it! To be blind, and to hear 




ROSAMOND’S SECRET 179 

someone—someone you loved—calling—calling for 
help! 

“He got there—just in time. The fiend heard 
him coming and made off through the woods. . . . 

Anne was ill, terribly ill, and for a long time it 
seemed as if she could not live. It was a fearful 
time for—for everyone who cared for her. 

“A few days before her little twin babies were 
born, the body of the—of the wretch was found at 
the bottom of a cliff. There were black marks of 
fingers on his throat—but he was known to be a 
worthless scoundrel—and the coroner’s jury brought 
in a verdict of accidental death.” 

There was a long silence, broken only by the call 
of an owl away off in the woods—“Who-o-o 
—Who-” 

After a time Walter Lord went on, in a slightly 
altered tone: 

“I don’t know how it was, but little Rosamond 
never showed the slightest effect of her mother’s 
fearful experience, while Anne, poor little Anne, not 
only will bear, as long as she lives, a terrible birth¬ 
mark, but her whole character seemed to be affected 
by it. Whether it was the shock to her mother’s en¬ 
tire nervous system, or whether it was because she 
was not like other children, I can’t tell, but she was 
painfully, almost morbidly, shy and retiring. She 
came down here to school only when she was forced 
to do so, and the rest of the time she spent with her 
father, whom she positively adored. I think the fact 





180 THE SINISTER MARK 

that he was blind and could not see how badly she 
was disfigured may have had something to do with 
it, for on this point she was abnormally sensitive and 
self-conscious. I don’t believe, strange as it may 
seem, that her father ever knew anything about it. 
There was no necessity, and I can’t think any one 
would have been cruel enough to tell him. The 
few times I saw them together he showed no con¬ 
sciousness that there was anything amiss with his 
little favourite, Anne. He would stroke her smooth 
little face and call her his ‘beautiful, little, dear 
girl.’ In fact, so far as he could tell, there was 
no striking difference in the appearance of the two 
children, for in feature they were almost exactly 
alike, as you may be able to see from these photo¬ 
graphs.” 

Peter studied them again, as they lay, side by side, 
in the warm glow of the lamp. It had not struck him 
before, but as he compared them, feature by feature, 
he could see that in childhood, at least, the two little 
twin sisters must have looked startlingly alike, 
though even at that time the expression of the two 
faces was strikingly dissimilar. 

There was the same thick, rich, dark hair, the same 
smooth, broad brow, the same delicate modelling of 
feature, but in the case of Mary—(Rosamond, he 
corrected himself)—the eyes and mouth were laugh¬ 
ing, careless, and gay, while Anne’s were serious and 
quiet—almost tragic—a thing not good to see in one 
so young. 


ROSAMOND’S SECRET 


181 


“All kinds of possibilities there,” thought Peter, 
with a slight shake of the head. “Plenty of intel¬ 
ligence and nervous force—a kind of courage, too, 
I should imagine, with a strong little chin like that. 
. . . The devil’s own lay-out for a girl, handi¬ 
capped as she was-” 

Walter Lord, looking at the portraits and not at 
Peter, did not notice his abstraction. 

“Yes,” he said, “they did look a lot alike, in a way, 
but even at that, the resemblance was only physical, 
and they showed more and more difference as they 
grew up. Their father died when they were about 
fifteen, and after that her mother had more difficulty 
than ever in controlling Rosamond. I saw a good 
deal of them at that time, and though she talked 
little about it, I could see that she was worried. 
Even at that age, Rosamond was careless, reckless, 
and extravagant. She always longed for finery, 
and when I brought books for little Anne, I always 
took a bit of ribbon or some such foolishness to 
Rosamond. It was wonderful to see what the child 
could do with the few things at her disposal. She 
had a sense of dress and adornment that was really 
remarkable.” 

(Peter remembered that he had read, somewhere, 
that Mary Blake was the most skilfully costumed 
woman on the stage.) 

“Little Anne had it, too, in a different way. Her 
clothes were always quiet and pretty and suitable. 
Dress seemed to be a kind of instinct with both of 



182 THE SINISTER MARK 

the girls, but Rosamond's taste was almost—almost 
theatrical." 

Peter nodded to himself. 

“I suppose it was a desire for admiration/' Lord 
went on, in his gentle, kindly voice, “that was the 
cause of—of the trouble that came to poor little 
Rosamond." 

Peter pricked up his ears. Was he to learn some¬ 
thing at last? Something of the secret, perhaps, 
that Mary Blake thought no one would ever know— 
the reason that she- 

“What trouble?" asked Peter, aloud, carefully 
restraining his eagerness. 

Walter Lord’s chin was on his hand and his eyes 
were bent upon the two little pictures. He spoke 
slowly, sadly: 

“It didn’t happen until after their mother passed 
away. ... I could always thank God for that. 

. . . The girls were eighteen then, well grown, 

tall and graceful, and Rosamond most beautiful 
—magnificent—though I always thought that 
Anne-" 

Lord paused an instant and then caught up again 
the thread of his narrative. 

“Well—no one knew exactly how it happened. 
On the mountain, beyond that valley over there"— 
he pointed through the window, where a full, bright 
moon lit hill and vale with tender radiance—“on the 
far side of the mountain there had sprung up a 
summer colony of city people. We saw them, once 











ROSAMOND’S SECRET 183 

in a while, riding through here on horseback—a gay 
lot of young people, rich and careless. . . . 

“How Rosamond met—the man—Anne never 
knew. She loved her sister passionately, devotedly, 
but Rosamond never confided in her. All Anne knew 
was that Rosamond went ofF for long walks by her¬ 
self. She’d be gone all day, and come home, laugh¬ 
ing and happy, with a brilliant colour in her face 
and her eyes alight. . . . And then, one day, 

she did not come back. . . . Anne watched, in 

sleepless agony, all through the night, and in the 
morning she came down to me. . . . 

“We never heard from Rosamond but once. 
. . . Only once, and that was the next day. 

Just one letter to Anne, which she never showed me. 
I don’t know if even she knew the name of the man. 
. . . All she said to me was: ‘She’s never coming 

back, Uncle Walter,’ and then she covered her poor 
face with her arm and laid her head against the wall. 
‘She’s not married to him,’ she sobbed, ‘and she 
says—oh, God!—she says she doesn’t care. . . .’” 

“So that was it,’’ thought Peter. “That was Mary 
Blake’s secret. Good God! How shall I tell Morris? 
A young, pleasure-loving, untaught, unmoral crea¬ 
ture. . . . And he thinks her perfect. . . . 

What was his phrase? ‘A wonder-woman’!’’ 

Old Walter Lord talked on sadly, reminiscently, 
but for a long time Peter did not hear what he was 
saying. He was thinking—“What shall I tell 
Morris? How shall I tell Morris?’’ 


CHAPTER XIX 

In the Old Photograph Gallery 

TX^HEN Peter awoke very early the next morning, 
* * though the problem was still the same, the form 
of his inner question had slightly changed. 

“How much need I tell Morris?” he asked himself. 
“If Mary Blake never is found, why dig up the sad 
old sordid story? It must have happened ten years 
ago—and perhaps she’d redeemed herself—who can 
tell? And it’s a thankless job, chucking stones is, 
Pete. ... If what O’Malley and I doped out 
turns out to be true, and Anne, in spite of the virtues 
old Lord attributes to her. ... If Anne, for the 
sake of her clever sister’s money—or from jealousy 
of her perfect beauty-H’m’m’m.” 

He broke off here to wonder how the sisters came 
together afterward. Lord evidently knew nothing 
about it. So far as Peter could learn he was quite 
unaware that they had ever met again. 

After recovering from the shock of Lord’s dis¬ 
closure in regard to Rosamond, Peter had, care¬ 
fully and skilfully, questioned him. The talk lasted 
far into the night, but all he had found out was 
this: 

Upon Rosamond’s disappearance from Hobart 

184 




THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY 185 

Falls, Anne had retired, absolutely, within herself. 
All that winter she lived alone in the small house on 
the other side of the mountain and never came at all 
to the village. Lord had gone up to see her many 
times, and at last she confided to him that she had 
almost no money at all. 

He didn’t say it in so many words, but Peter 
gathered that the generous, kind old man had offered 
to share what little he had with her and had been 
refused. 

“When summer came,” he told Peter, “without 
saying anything to me, she went over and got work 
from the rich city people in Fennimore Park.” 

Peter understood that the old man was very 
angry when he found it out, but that it had had no 
effect on Anne’s unyielding spirit. She continued 
to take washing and to do day’s work for the summer 
people. There was nothing else to be done. She was 
too proud to take money she had not earned, and this 
seemed to be the only way in which she could make 
a livelihood. 

And then, one day late in the fall, Lord had re¬ 
ceived a letter from her saying that she was going 
away as a sort of maid or companion to an old lady, a 
Mrs. Rutherford, who had a cottage in Fennimore 
Park. She told him that she hoped, before very 
long, to be able to send the money he had loaned her 
on her father’s watch and an old seal ring. (Lord 
had been worried for fear Mr. Clancy might think 
he had exacted this security. Peter assured him that 


186 THE SINISTER MARK 

he readily understood that it must have been forced 
upon him.) 

“And did she send for them?” Peter had asked 
with interest. 

It transpired that she had and that Lord had 
returned the watch and ring in Mrs. Rutherford’s 
care, to the Holland House in New York. 

And that was the last he had ever heard of Anne 
Curwood. He had made a pilgrimage to Fennimore 
Park the next summer, only to find that Mrs. Ru¬ 
therford had gone abroad and that no one knew any¬ 
thing about Anne. The following year he succeeded 
in seeing Mrs. Rutherford, who was obviously, from 
Lord’s tone, an awe-inspiring lady. She had dimly 
remembered that she had once had a maid named 
Anne Curwood, but the young woman was no longer 
in her employ and she could, unfortunately, give Mr. 
Lord no address. 

Peter was going over all this in his mind as he 
bathed and dressed. He was in a somewhat despon¬ 
dent mood for one of his sanguine temperament, and 
rather wished he had not humoured Walter Lord’s 
absurd request that he should sit for his photograph 
before he left in the morning. To be sure, he had 
refused once, on the ground that his train left at 
nine-thirty, but when he saw how disappointed Lord 
was not to have this souvenir of what was, evidently, 
an event in the old man’s life, he hastily relented, and 
as a result, he was up and dressed at seven o’clock. 

He had heard his host pottering about the kitchen 


THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY 187 

before he was up, and when he presently descended 
the old carpeted front stair, he found an ample and 
savoury breakfast awaiting him. It was rapidly, and 
by Walter Lord gleefully, dispatched. 

“The light is great this morning,” the old enthusi¬ 
ast said, as he led the way up the back stairs, “and 
I’m going to make a fine picture of you, Mr. Clancy. 
It’s awfully good of you to be willing to humour an 
old codger like me. I hope you won’t mind the gallery 
being a bit dusty,” he added, opening a gray painted 
door. “I don’t have much incentive, these days, to 
keep it spick and span, and I never have allowed 
Miranda to tidy up here since the day she carefully 
dusted six wet negatives.” He laughed over his 
shoulder as he went into a closet for his plate holders. 

Peter, left to his own devices for a moment, wan¬ 
dered about the room. It was an ordinary country 
photograph gallery, with the usual top and side 
lights, platform, screens, and chairs. The only 
odd thing about it was that the walls, from a chair 
rail at the bottom to well above the eye line, were 
completely covered with photographs. It was a big 
room, and there was not one inch of space wasted. 
It must have been the enthusiastic work of a life¬ 
time, and Walter Lord was, obviously, a good work¬ 
man for even the portraits which, judging by the 
costumes, dated far back, were not badly faded. 

“This is some collection you’ve got here,” said 
Peter, admiringly, as Lord came back into the room. 
“Wish I had time to look it all over.” 


188 THE SINISTER MARK 

Lord laid his plates down on a table near by, and 
smiling at the compliment, motioned Peter to a chair 
on the platform. Then he ducked under the black 
cloth of the camera, talking all the while: 

“Yes, IVe done a fairish amount of work in my 
time, Mr. Clancy, though a lot of it was gratis, as 
you may imagine. (A little more to the left, please.) 
I haven’t made a lot of money, but I’ve had a 
splendid time. (Chin up, just a little. Not quite 
so much—there, that’s line. Couldn’t be better.) 
I’ll show you some things you may be interested in, 
in just a moment. Now, don’t move, please .” 

He slipped out from under the black cloth, caught 
up and adjusted the plate holder with expert hands, 
and then stood beside the camera, with the bulb ready. 

“Now imagine that you’ve just caught a two- 
pound trout, Mr. Clancy! That’s what I want! 
That’s fine, line! Oh, that’s going to be splendid, 
Mr. Clancy,’’ he said, gleefully, as he manipulated 
the plates. “Now just once more to make sure. A 
little to the right—there—and another fish!’’ 

Peter laughed aloud. The shutter clicked. The 
old man was delighted. 

“I caught that laugh of yours, Mr. Clancy, and 
that was just what I wanted—to remember you by. 
It’s good to be young, and to laugh. I don’t believe 
you have a care in the world!’’ 

Peter laughed inwardly, sardonically, at this. 
And all the while he was thinking of DonaJd Morris. 
How much need he be told? 




THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY 189 

“Come over here, and I’ll show you something 
pretty, Mr. Clancy.” Walter Lord, having dis¬ 
posed of his precious plates, was again at Peter’s 
side. “I think this is one of the most charming 
pictures I’ve ever made. See if you recognize it.” 

He led the way to a corner of the room where some 
of the photographs were turning a little brown; evi¬ 
dently they had been placed there years ago. He 
pointed to a cabinet-size picture half way up the 
wall. Peter looked and saw, dressed in a fanciful 
costume of fluttering gauze, a delicate, slender 
child’s figure standing, fairy-like, beside the trunk of 
a great beech. The flicker of sun and leaf shadows 
was all about her, and her little oval face was alight 
with joy and mischief. The beauty of it caught 
Peter’s breath. 

“Why, it’s Mar—Rosamond Curwood, isn’t it?” 
he exclaimed. “And, by George, I’ll say you’re 
some artist, Mr. Lord!” 

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” said the old man, happily. 
“I remember how I enjoyed taking it. Not many 
regular photographers were doing outdoor back¬ 
grounds at that time, but I had nothing here”— 
he glanced scornfully at the stiffly painted old 
screens—“nothing that was suitable. And I did 
want to keep a memory of the way the child looked 
in that fairy dress. I saw her at the school in a little 
play, and persuaded her—not that there was any 
trouble about that—to sit for me. It was a curious 
thing how well Rosamond acted in all the little 


THE SINISTER MARK 


190 

entertainments they gave at the school. . . . At 

the same time, I don’t think she was half so clever, 
in that way, as Anne, but of course Anne was so shy 
that she would never appear in public, and I imagine 
almost no one knew that she had any talent. I only 
found it out, myself, by accident.” 

Peter saw in this the old man’s habitual defence of 
his favourite, a natural siding with ‘The under 
dog.” To humour this kindly quality, he asked: 

“How was that?” 

“Why,” said Walter Lord, reminiscently, “it 
started one day when I was going up to their house 
through the woods. I was walking along quietly, 
and suddenly I thought I heard someone talking, 
half singing, a little way to the left, behind a screen 
of young hemlock. The words, such as I could catch, 
sounded strangely familiar. My curiosity got the 
better of me, and I slipped quietly through the 
bushes and parted the hemlock sprays. There, in a 
tiny open glade, was little Anne, dancing lightly in 
the sunshine and half singing: 

“If we shadows have offended, 

Think but this, and all is mended- 

That you have slumbered here. 

While these visions did appear- 

“You know, Mr. Clancy—the last part of ‘Mid¬ 
summer Night’s Dream’.” 

Peter was not any too familiar with Shakespeare, 




THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY 191 

but he nodded in silent acquiescence, and the old man 
went on: 

“I found out, after that, that she knew simply 
miles of Shakespeare. She used to recite for me, 
under strict pledge of secrecy, in the woods, on long, 
summer afternoons. You should have heard her, as 
little Arthur, in ‘King John/ plead for her eyes— 
‘O, spare mine eyes, if for no use, but still to look on 
thee!’ Her voice was enough to break a body's 
heart. . . . But, of course, she had no chance, 

poor child, with that dreadful mark on her face.” 

“Was it such a terrible disfigurement?” asked 
Peter, eager to get an accurate description. “Where 
was it and how large?” 

“It was just here”—Walter Lord placed his curved 
palm upon his lower jaw, with the fingers extending 
up on the cheek. “It was almost like the mark of a 

hand, a bloody hand-” The old man frowned 

and sadly shook his head. “Too bad, too bad. 
Wrecked the poor child’s life . . . seems terri¬ 
ble . . . such a little thing—but, for a girl-” 

“Yes, too bad, too bad,” echoed Peter, absently, 
the while he made a mental note of the probable 
shape and position of the identifying mark by which 
he hoped at last to recognize Anne Blake. “Well,” 
he added, rousing himself and looking at his watch, 
“I’m afraid I ought to be going, Mr. Lord. How 
long will it take to get to the station?” 

“Oh, not more than ten minutes,” answered the 
old man, dragging out his own watch and comparing 




192 


THE SINISTER MARK 


it with Peter’s. “You’ve twenty minutes to spare. 
I want to write down your address so I can send you 
prints of the pictures I took of you just now. I’m 
pretty sure you’ll like ’em.” 

He went over and began fumbling in his desk for 
something to write upon. Peter followed and stood 
beside him. 

“Forty-seven East Thirty - Street.” Peter 

supplied his private address, and as Lord seemed to 
be having some trouble in finding what he sought, 
Peter waited, glancing absently about. 

Suddenly his eye was arrested by a picture on the 
wall—a man and a girl on horseback. Could he be 
mistaken? He stepped nearer. No, he was right. 
He had never seen the girl before, but the man, the 
man on the left of the photograph, was Donald 
Morris. There could be no possible doubt. But 
what was he doing here? How had it happened- 

Suppressing an ejaculation, Peter turned to the old 
photographer. Making his voice perfectly casual, 
he asked: 

“Who’s the good-looking chap on horseback over 
here?” 

Lord looked up, following Peter’s pointing finger. 

“Oh, that?” he said. “I don’t know the man’s 
name. The lady is a Miss Stone—lives over at 
Fennimore Park. She’s quite a friend of mine. 
Rides through here two or three times a season, and 
is always having her picture taken with some man or 
other. You’ll find several of’em along there. . . . 





THE OLD PHOTOGRAPH GALLERY 193 

Now, where the dickens? Oh, here it is.” He 
pulled, from a crowded pigeonhole, a small, dusty, 
black leather notebook, dragging a mass of letters 
and papers out with it. “Now, Mr. Clancy, give 

me the address again, if you don’t mind-” 

Peter, his mind full of conjectures, leaned over the 
old man as he sat at his desk, and absently repeated 

his address: ‘‘Forty-seven East Thirty-Street, 

New York City.” And as he did so, his eye lighted 
upon one of the letters which had fallen to the floor. 

Automatically, he stooped to pick it up, and as he 
lifted it, inadvertently he caught the words: 

. . . money order, and if you will return my 

father’s ring, which I value, and the-” 

Peter’s heart almost stopped beating as he looked 
at the writing. His brain was in a whirl. He must 
leave immediately, and he had no time to weigh prob¬ 
lems of right and wrong. He only knew one thing. 
He must have this letter of Anne Curwood’s—of 
Anne Blake’s. He must have time to consider. 

The old man’s head was bent above his notebook. 
With a swift motion Peter, feeling like an unmitigated 
hound, slipped the letter into his pocket. “I’ll make 
up some story—I’ll return it later,” he thought, con¬ 
fusedly. “In the meantime-” 

“I’m afraid I’ve got to hustle to make the train, 
Mr. Lord,” he said, aloud, grasping the old man’s 
hand. “You’ve been awfully good to me, and I do 
appreciate it, though I may not show it much. I’ll 
write to you, and I hope you won’t forget me. 






194 


THE SINISTER MARK 


Don’t come down. Til just grab my bag and beat it. 
Thank you a thousand times for your hospitality, 
and if you ever come to New York, don’t forget that 
you have my address. Good-bye. Good-bye”— 
and in the midst of Walter Lord’s hearty farewells 
and invitations to come again, he was gone. 


CHAPTER XX 

Peter Clancy Changes His Plans— 


AND again, as Peter made his swift way to the 
^ station, the question which had been hammer¬ 
ing in his brain took another form—“How much can 
I keep from telling Morris? How much can I keep 
to myself till I can think things out? It's absurd, 

Pete! It can’t be, and yet—if—if-” And again: 

“How much can I keep from telling Morris?” 

The answer to the question which was uppermost 
in Peter’s rapid thoughts was destined, within the 
next few minutes, to be influenced in a most unex¬ 
pected manner. He had scarcely entered the little 
old smelly waiting room of the Hobart Falls station, 
when, at the sound of his footsteps on the bare 
boards, a man looked out of the little grated ticket- 
window, the same man who had replied to his inquiry 
as to telegrams on the previous evening. 

“There’s a wire here for you now, if your name’s 
Clancy, Peter Clancy,” the agent said, turning back 
to refer to a yellow sheet of paper which lay beside 
the telegraph instrument. “That was the name you 
said last night, wasn’t it? It’s just come in, not five 
minutes ago. Night letter. Sign here, please.” 

He slipped the telegram and a thumbed pad through 

195 



196 THE SINISTER MARK 

below the grating, watching Peter curiously the 
while. Evidently the residents of Hobart Falls 
were not used to receiving night letters. 

Peter scrawled his name on the pad, and hastily 
catching up the telegram, he went swiftly over to the 
window. What had happened? What new com¬ 
plication— 

The telegram was written out in the operator’s 
none too legible hand. It was maddening, for, not 
very far away, Peter could hear his train, whistling for 
a crossing. And he wanted to get back to town—to 
talk to O’Malley—to think. 

Slowly, perforce, he puzzled out the unpunctuated 
sentences: 

Full story M. B. disappearance to-night’s Earth devil to pay 
think F.J. must have spilled beans D.M. all broken up left for 
Fennimore Park private car with sister night train Fennimore 
Park near you report there for God’s sake make him understand 
no leak this office 

(Signed) O’Malley. 

The train thundered into the station and out again, 
but Peter took no notice. His plans had undergone 
a complete change. The agent, who was also the 
expressman as well as the telegraph operator, was 
surprised to find the intending passenger still there 
though not so much so as he would have been if he, 
himself, had not received the queer telegram. He 
was somewhat prepared for the question with which 
the stranger greeted his reappearance. 













CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS— 197 

“What’s the next train for Fennimore Park?” 
Peter asked, quickly. 

“Ain’t no train for there on this line,” answered 
K the agent, helpfully. “Ye have t’ go back to the 
junction and ketch the Mountain Express there. Ye 
should have taken number fifty-three down,” he 
jerked his head in the direction of the rapidly reced¬ 
ing rumble. 

Peter’s silence was more profane than any speech. 
Then a sudden thought struck him. He threw a 
withering glance at the indifferent agent, and jumped 
to the door opposite to the one on the platform. He 
was just in time to see a tired flivver strolling slowly 
down the dusty road. 

“Josh!” he yelled, at the top of his voice. “Josh!” 

His lungs were strong, and his intent was sin¬ 
cere. Slowly the old car came to a standstill and 
the driver, craning his long neck, looked back down 
the road. 

“Ye want me?” he bellowed. 

Peter answered with a peremptory wave of the 
hand. The creaking car turned in a cloud of dust, 
and came slowly back. 

“How far is it to Fennimore Park from here?” 
Peter asked, as soon as it came within reasonable 
calling distance. 

“Pretty dost to twenty mile,” said Josh, promptly. 
“Why?” 

“ Is the old boat good for it ? ” Peter eyed the poor 
old car with some disfavour. 


THE SINISTER MARK 


198 

“Ye betcha she is,” said Josh, enthusiastically. 
“I told ye, she’s the best car in town. Want I 
should take ye there? I’ll do it fer five.” 

Peter wasted no more time. He jumped, bag and 
all, into the back seat. “ Shoot! ” was all he said. 

He was silent for almost the entire way—thinking 
—thinking—thinking- 

The old car bumped and skidded over the moun¬ 
tain roads, and groaned and laboured up the long, 
rough hills. Peter kept himself in by clinging to 
the iron braces of the top, but aside from these 
automatic efforts at self-preservation he was practi¬ 
cally unconscious of the way they went. 

A strange thought had come to him in Walter 
Lord’s old photograph studio. A thought so odd 
and bizarre that at first it seemed absolutely im¬ 
possible and insane. And then he began piecing 
things together. Bit by bit, apparently uncon¬ 
nected scraps of information were fitted together, 
now this way and now that. Once, making sure 
that the driver was completely occupied with the 
difficulties of the winding road, Peter took from his 
pocket the letter he had appropriated. (“Stolen, 
dammit!” he thought, disgustedly. “Mine’s a hell 
of a job for a decent man. But if I could prove, even 

to myself-”) He looked long and wonderingly 

at the letter before he slipped it back into an inner 
pocket. 

“Mary, apparently, took no clothes at all,” he 
thought, going back for the thousandth time over 














CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS 


— i99 

the old ground, “and Anne took a big trunk. . . . 

Well, that would fit—either way. . . . The 
large sum of money, left at the bank, subject to 
Anne's order as well as Mary’s. . . . Yes— 
either way. . . . But the blood on the scarf— 
and on the floor. ... I don’t see—unless. 

. . . By George! I’ll bet-” 

The driver heard his passenger slap his leg with a.\ 
resounding thwack. He turned his head slightly. 
“Mosquito?” he threw over his shoulder. “Did ye 
git him?” 

“No. Yes—I’m not sure,” said Peter, coming, 
confusedly, back to the present. “How far are we 
now from Fennimore Park? And do we pass 
through any town on the way?” he added, his mind 
reverting to immediate necessities. 

“We’ll be there inside of twenty minutes,” Josh 
answered the questions in order, “and we pass 
through Tollenville about a mile this side. ’S quite 
a big place. Why?” 

“Think I could get yesterday’s New York papers 
anywhere there?” asked Peter. “Must keep up with 
the times, you know.” 

“Oh, sure ye can,” said Josh, easily. “Must 
have ’em at the Tollen House, I should think. I’d 
like t’ stop there, anyway,” and he drew the back of 
his hand, in a suggestive gesture, across his mouth. 

“All right,” said Peter, with a comprehending 
grin. “If it’s that kind of a place I may get the 
paper I want. So don’t forget to stop.” 




200 


THE SINISTER MARK 

“I won’t,” said Josh, with evident sincerity, and 
Peter retired again into his thoughts. 

It seemed to him not many minutes later when 
they pulled up in front of a big, ugly red brick hotel 
with many wooden porches and gay, striped awnings. 

“Tollen House,” remarked Josh, briefly, and dis¬ 
appeared around the corner of the building. 

Peter entered the lobby and anxiously enquired 
for the New York Evening Earth of yesterday’s date. 
One was found for him, much to his satisfaction. He 
gave the porter, who brought it to him, a generous 
tip, and dashed out to the poor old waiting “Lizzie,” 
which looked more weary and woebegone than ever. 

Josh was nowhere in sight, and while Peter waited 
he ran a quick and practised eye over the paper. 

“No wonder Donald Morris was in the devil of a 
stew,” he thought, as he absorbed the principal 
article on the front page, with its blatant headlines 
and its large half-tone picture of Mary Blake. 
“Wonder if he could think our office would be guilty 
of letting his name appear! Gee! that would be a 
rotten thing for a client. ‘Absence first discovered 
by Donald Morris, son of Steven Morris, and heir to 
the Morris millions’,” he read, disgustedly. “Dam¬ 
mit all! It’s a beastly shame. I’ll bet his house was 
besieged by reporters before the story had been on the 
street ten minutes. Nobody could have leaked but 
Jones, confound him! Bound to get some publicity 
for his leading lady, whether she liked it or not, and a 
lot for himself into the bargain. ‘Frederick Jones, 


CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS— 201 

Miss Blake's manager, interviewed,' and in pretty 
good-sized type, too. Oh, damn!" 

At that moment Josh returned. Wiping his mouth 
with a soiled red handkerchief, he took his place at 
the wheel. “Some hooch!" he remarked, with a 
wise, sidelong wink, and the car started laboriously 
up the road. 

Peter, still looking at the offending paper, rapidly 
formulated his defence as they crawled up the steep 
mountain side. The roadbed here was of red shale, 
smooth and well tended, a strong contrast to the back 
roads they had been traversing. Soon they came to 
a great rough stone gateway and a lodge. They 
were held up here, while the lodge keeper telephoned 
the Atterbury cottage, where, he said, Mr. Donald 
Morris was stopping. 

“It's all right. You can go right up, sir," he 
said, returning after a moment. “Do you know 
where it is? Well, you take the first turn to the 
right after you pass the inn, and it’s the last house 
before you come to the church. You can’t miss it. 
Thank you, sir." 

“Some style," grumbled Josh, as the car moved 
away. “Would ye think this was once a free coun¬ 
try?" He addressed the world at large, and Peter 
did not trouble to answer. He had too much to 
think about even to notice the exquisite woodland 
park through which they were passing; the great 
old mossy trees, the broad red road, the ferns and 
wild flowers, the primitive forest, broken here and 


202 


THE SINISTER MARK 


there by wide velvet lawns and low, broad, pictur¬ 
esque cottages. He was the first, however, to real¬ 
ize that they had reached their journey’s end. 

“There’s the church, Josh,” he said, “and this will 
be the house. Drive in and wait a minute till I 
make sure.” 

He sprang up the two low steps almost before the 
old car had stopped, and in a second returned and 
slipped a bill and some jingling coins into Josh’s out¬ 
stretched hand. “More hooch,” he explained the 
coins with a wink, and Josh trundled away with a large 
admiration of his “fare” in his leathery old heart. 

The servant, from whom Peter had made his in¬ 
quiries, again met him at the door as he crossed the 
porch. 

“Mrs. Atterbury would like to see you before you 
go up to Mr. Morris, if you please, sir,” he said in a 
soft, tired voice, and led the way through a living 
room which seemed endless to Peter, and out on 
to another wide veranda. “Mr. Clancy, ’m,” he 
announced, in a tone which disclaimed all responsi¬ 
bility for so plebeian a name, and softly vanished, 
leaving Peter face to face with Mrs. Francis Atter¬ 
bury. 

It was an ill moment for poor Peter, judging by the 
lady’s expression. 

“Mr. Clancy,” she said, motioning slightly to a 
chair near the one in which she was seated. “This 
is a most unfortunate circumstance. My brother 
is quite overcome. He’s really ill, yet I had to drag 


CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS— 203 

him up here, almost by force, last night. The re¬ 
porters were simply besieging the house, and my 
brother was so nervously unstrung that I had to call 
in a doctor. I’ve seen it coming for a long time, 
and that terrible article in the paper yesterday was 
the last straw. You’ve seen it, I suppose?” Her 
eyes narrowed as she keenly regarded Peter, and 
there was a drawing together of her handsome eye¬ 
brows which boded ill for him if he could not assure 
her of his innocence in the matter. 

“I had a wire from my partner early this morn¬ 
ing,” Peter replied, with the calm of conscious 
rectitude, “and I was able to get the paper at Tollen- 
ville on my way over. That was absolutely the first 
I knew that the story had leaked out. You must 
see, Mrs. Atterbury, from the tone of the entire 
article, that my office could not possibly have given 
it to the papers. A firm of detectives couldn’t last 
long, if it was as leaky as that. I will admit,” he 
added, candidly, “that I advised Mr. Morris some 
time ago that our best bet was to give out the story 
so as to get the help of the general public in tracing 
Miss Blake—and her sister. You sometimes get 
information that way that you can’t get by private 
inquiry. We would have been able, through personal 
connection with the papers, to keep Mr. Morris’s 
name entirely out of it. I urged it on him several 
times, but he couldn’t see it that way, and I was 
forced to give it up. We are acting entirely in Mr. 
Morris’s interests”—he said this gravely, and with a 



THE SINISTER MARK 


204 

dignity which was very convincing—“and my office 
would not go contrary to his wishes in any particular. 
I must ask you and Mr. Morris to believe this.” 

“Well,” conceded Helena Atterbury, unbending 
slightly, “I suppose I must take your word for it, 
Mr. Clancy. My brother seems to have a great deal 
of confidence in you. But I can’t think—I can’t 
see how Mr. Jones could have done such a thing. I 
believe your partner told Mr. Morris that the story 
could only have come from him. Why, I’ve enter¬ 
tained him at my house. He accepted my hospital¬ 
ity, and-” 

“Mrs. Atterbury,” Peter interrupted, with a shake 
of his head, “I’m afraid you don’t understand what 
lengths people will go to for the sake of advertising. 
They seem to lose all sense of decency sometimes. 
I knew it was a risk to let Frederick Jones in on the 
game, but there were certain things we had to know 
and he was bound, being her manager, to find out 
sooner or later, probably sooner than later, that she’d 
disappeared. I hope you can see that we had no 
choice.” 

Helena Atterbury, in spite of her annoyance at the 
contretemps, could not fail to be impressed by the 
ingenuous sincerity of the young detective’s speech 
and manner. Her voice had lost much of its icy 
hauteur when she spoke again. 

“Well, I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Clancy,” 
she said, rising. “Mr. Morris is anxious to see you. 
He is in a very bad nervous condition, and I know 



CLANCY CHANGES HIS PLANS— 205 

you will be careful.” Her natural, woman’s anxiety 
spoke in her voice and eyes, and her natural, woman’s 
curiosity prompted her to question: ‘‘Did you find 
out anything new yesterday? Can you give my 

brother any hope that-” 

“I don’t know, any more than I did before, where 
Miss Blake is, Mrs. Atterbury,” he said, frankly. 
“But I did find out some things—some things that 
I hope may prove of value. It was only last night 
and this morning that I got hold of the information, 
and I haven’t had time really to think it out. But 
I will say this much to you, Mrs. Atterbury: for 
almost the first time since I took the case I have 
hope. I really feel that I have definite hope.” 

His clear, bright blue Irish eyes looked straight 
into hers, and Helena Atterbury’s distaste and dis¬ 
trust melted slowly away. 

“I pray, for my brother’s sake, that your hopes are 
well founded, Mr. Clancy,” she said. “Come. 
I’ll take you up to him.” 



CHAPTER XXI 
And Asks a Question 


T)ETER found his client comfortably ensconced 
A in a long, swinging couch on a wide porch on the 
second floor. He looked pale and worn and appeared 
nervously exhausted, but his tired eyes lighted a little 
as Peter came through the bedroom door. 

Helena Atterbury tactfully left them alone at 
once, and Peter was glad to find that there was little 
difficulty in convincing Donald Morris that he and 
his staff were in no way responsible for the news¬ 
paper article which had caused so much pain and 
annoyance. 

“I wouldn’t have had it leak out for the world,” 
said Donald, anxiously. “Mrs. Atterbury was furi¬ 
ous about the reporters coming to the house, but I 
wouldn’t have minded that so much. What knocked 
me up completely was the thought of how it would 
affect Mary. Somehow, that just bowled me over, 
Clancy. I’m ashamed to say I went all to pieces. 
You see, her letter to me—well, I’m sure, no matter 
what happened, she wanted me to wait—to wait till 
I heard from her.” 

“By the way,” said Peter, leaning suddenly for¬ 
ward in his low wicker chair, “that letter—have you 

206 


1 




—AND ASKS A QUESTION 207 

got it with you? or anywhere handy? I’d like to 
look at it again. There’s something I want to make 
sure of- 

A quality in Peter’s voice caused Morris to look 
up at him quickly. 

“What!” he exclaimed. “Have you found out 
something new? Did you get hold of anything at 
Hobart Falls yesterday? It seems the most un¬ 
likely place in the world, and I haven’t the least idea 
why you went there.” 

“I did—and I didn’t,” answered Peter, non¬ 
committally. “As I just told your sister, I don’t 
know, any more than I did before, where Miss Blake 
has gone. But I did come across something—some¬ 
thing that may help. Have you got the letter ? ” 

Morris, regarding him with serious, puzzled eyes, 
put his hand into an inner pocket and drew out a 
leather case. Silently he opened it, extracted a 
letter and handed it to Peter, intently watching the 
face of the young detective. 

Peter looked at the letter long and earnestly. He 
read it through carefully, from the folded page at the 
beginning to the end. Neither of them spoke. In 
the silence, a low murmur of voices came up to them 
from the porch beneath, a question in a servant’s 
controlled tone, and a slightly louder answer from 
Mrs. Atterbury, but neither of the men heard or 
heeded. 

Peter folded the letter and handed it back to 
Donald, 




208 


THE SINISTER MARK 

“You’d better keep it,” he said, slowly. “I’ll ask 
you for it again, later.” 

“Very well,” said Donald, carefully replacing the 
letter. “And now, tell me, Clancy, for God’s sake, 
what it was you discovered at Hobart Falls?” 

“Well,” said Peter, deliberately, “it wasn’t so 
much, you may say. But there’s one thing I know 
you will be interested to learn: I have found out 
positively what Miss Blake’s own name really is.” 

“Her own name?” repeated Morris. “And in 
such an unlikely place?” 

“Yes,” answered Peter. “It does seem strange, 
but I can assure you that I’m correct. Her name is 
Curwood.” 

“Curwood,” Donald echoed. “Curwood.” 

“Yes,” said Peter. “That’s the name. I verified 

it carefully, and you may be sure-” Suddenly 

he started violently, and his hand shot up in a warn¬ 
ing gesture. He leaned close to Morris, and whis¬ 
pered in his ear: “What- Who is that?” 

A voice had come up to them from the porch be¬ 
low. What it said was commonplace to a degree. 
Donald could see no possible reason for the detective’s 
evident excitement. 

“Good morning, Helena, dear,” the voice said. 
“I’m so glad you’re here once more. I only just 
heard-” 

There was the sound of a chair scraping on the tiled 
floor, and Mrs. Atterbury said something in a cordial 
tone. 





—AND ASKS A QUESTION 209 

“Who is it?” Peter repeated, insistently. “Who 
is that down there?” 

“Why,” said Morris, looking at Peter in as¬ 
tonishment, “why, that must be Aunt Kate. No¬ 
body else has a voice like that,” and he shook his 
head with a whimsical half smile. “What in the 
world-” 

“Speak low,” said Peter, anxiously. “I don’t 
want to miss-” 

Again the voice came up to them: 

“Did Donald come up with you, Helena? I saw 
that thing in the paper, and somebody told me-” 

Followed a low murmur in reply from Mrs. Atter- 
bury. 

“Who is it?” Peter asked again, excitement ap¬ 
parent in every line of his face. “A relative? What 
is her name? Her full name?” 

“No, not a relative,” Donald answered, bewildered 
by Peter’s obvious agitation. “We’ve always called 
her that. Her name is Rutherford, Kate Ruther¬ 
ford.” 

“Good God!” said Peter, starting to his feet. 
“Rutherford!” Under his breath he whispered to 
himself—“The voice! The voice over the wire. 
I’m sure, certain. There can be no mistake. I knew 
I’d recognize it if ever-” 

“What is the matter, Clancy?” Donald had 
thrown aside the rug under which he had been lying, 
and had dropped his feet to the floor. “What do 
you know of-” 







210 


THE SINISTER MARK 


Peter interrupted sharply with: 

“I want to meet her. I must meet her, Morris. 
Fix it for me. It’s essential I should meet her at 
once. There’s no time to explain. She may go— 

oh, for the love of- Mr. Morris, I give you my 

word that I’m not crazy—and I must see and talk 
to Mrs. Rutherford!” 

Staggered by the other’s impetuosity, Donald got 
slowly to his feet. 

“Wait, wait just a moment,” he said, passing his 
hand over his forehead. “I don’t understand, but 
of course—what shall I tell her?” 

“Just say you heard her voice and came down to 
see her,” whispered Peter. “Introduce me as a 
friend—if,” he added, with an anxious, questioning 
look, “if you think you can go that far.” 

Morris looked him steadily in the eyes. Then he 
nodded slightly. Placing his hand on Peter’s shoul¬ 
der, he said, “I think I can go that far, Clancy. 
Come on.” 

Peter felt Morris’s weight on his shoulder as they 
descended the stairs, but by the time they had 
reached the lower porch he was erect and master of 
himself. 

Mrs. Atterbury started up in surprise as the two 
men came through the door, but her brother gave 
her a warning look, and she subsided into her chair 
without a word, though her eyes said plainly, “What 
in the world is Don bringing that detective here 
for?” 




211 


AND ASKS A QUESTION 

He ignored their puzzled question, and advanced 
with a smile to the visitor. 

“Good to see you again, Aunt Kate,” he said, 
cordially, as he took her hand, and leaning over, 
kissed her on the cheek. “It was bully of you to 
come down so soon.” 

Peter, who was directly behind him, did not see the 
visitor until Donald stepped back, and said: 

“Will you let me present my friend, Mr. Peter 
Clancy—Mrs. Rutherford.” 

Then Peter saw, seated in a high-backed Indian 
chair, as on a throne, a magnificent old lady whose 
impressive presence and mien were scarcely affected 
by the great weight of flesh which seemed to billow 
ail about her. 

She spoke to him at once, in a voice deep, clear, and 
resonant. “ I’m glad to meet any friend of Donald’s,” 
was all she said, but her exquisite enunciation made 
of the commonplace sentence a thing of beauty. 

Morris, observantly following Peter’s lead, sat 
down and joined in the quiet, ordinary, everyday 
conversation. The weather and everybody’s health 
came in for their stereotyped share. Peter, watch¬ 
ing, was quite sure they had interrupted a more inti¬ 
mate talk between the two women. He guessed 
what its subject had been but knew that it would 
not be resumed in the presence of a stranger. 

How was he, himself, to get an opportunity for 
a private conversation with Mrs. Rutherford, the 
necessity for which was uppermost in his thoughts? 



212 


THE SINISTER MARK 


And who was she, anyway? That she was a per¬ 
sonage there could be no doubt. Peter racked his 
brains to remember if he had ever heard of her, to no 
purpose. She was of a previous generation, but a 
personality like that- 

Unconsciously, Mrs. Rutherford proceeded to en¬ 
lighten him. He was so preoccupied that he only 
caught his own name in the middle of a sentence: 

“And Mr. Clancy, judging by his name and ap¬ 
pearance/’ she was saying, “ought to enjoy the story 
as much as I did. We’re both Irish, aren’t we, Mr. 
Clancy ? As you may possibly know, my name was 
Rohan once upon a time, and-” 

Rohan. Kate Rohan! Something clicked in 
Peter’s brain. Who, even of his comparative youth, 
had not heard of the old Athenaeum Company, and 
of Kate Rohan, its planet among stars? So! That 
accounted for—much—the gracious presence, the 
wonderful voice—and many, many things besides, 
Peter thought. 

He missed, almost completely, the amusing Irish 
story, told with a delicate, subtle brogue and a perfect 
inflection, but he heard just enough to join sponta¬ 
neously in the laugh which irresistibly followed. 

At the end of the story Mrs. Rutherford rose ma¬ 
jestically, and like a great ship getting under way, 
started toward the door. 

“I must be going, Helena,” she said, holding out 
her still beautiful hand. “I’m coming to see you 
and Don very soon again. Take care of yourself, 





—AND ASKS A QUESTION 213 

Don, and/’ with a little quick shake of the head as 
she put her hand in his, “don’t worry about things, 
my dear. There’s nothing really worth wasting a lot 
of expensive worry upon.” 

“I’ll see you to your car, Aunt Kate,” said Morris, 
placing his hand under her elbow. 

She turned on him at that, and drew herself up 
with a little laugh. “I’d have you know, Donald, 
that I walked down here and intend to walk back,” 
she said, proudly. 

“But, Aunt Kate!” 

“Yes, my dear. The doctor says that if I don’t 
take some gentle exercise I’ll spoil my figure” (she 
pronounced it “figgah”), “to say nothing of having 
another heart attack. And he calls walking up the 
mountain ‘gentle exercise’! To be sure, I take it 

slowly, but whu-u-u-!” She drew a long breath 

and let it go in a tragic sigh, but her eyes were full of 
an inextinguishable humour. 

“Are you going to be long here, Mr. Clancy?” she 
asked, turning to say “good-bye” to Peter, who stood 
close beside her. 

“I don’t quite know,” replied Peter, quietly. “It 
will depend a good deal on circumstances. I ought 
to go back to town this afternoon, but I haven’t been 
around the—the Park much yet, and I promised my¬ 
self I’d see something of it—only Don”—(he referred 
thus familiarly to his host without the flicker of an 
eyelash)—“you see, Don doesn’t feel quite up to going 
about with me, and-” 




THE SINISTER MARK 


214 

Quick as a flash Donald Morris intuitively caught 
Peter's intention. He did not know what the reason 
might be, but he grasped the fact that there was some 
unknown necessity for Clancy to see Mrs. Ruther¬ 
ford alone. So completely had the young detective 
won his confidence that this was enough for him. 

“I do feel a bit seedy, Aunt Kate, and that's a 
fact," he said, promptly, “and Peter’s just crazy to 
stretch those long legs of his. Take pity on him, 
there's a dear, and let him go along with you." 
Again he ignored the questioning, perplexed glance 
of his sister, who stood just behind Mrs. Rutherford. 
“The road up to Mrs. Rutherford's cottage is the 
loveliest thing in the park, Peter. When you've 
seen that, you’ll agree with me that it's one of the 
most paintable bits in America." 

“Are you a painter, Mr. Clancy?" Mrs. Ruther¬ 
ford asked, a few moments later as they started up 
the curving road, Peter accommodating his long 
stride to her stately, ponderous step. “I should 
hardly have thought-” 

“I don’t look much like one, do I?" Peter laughed. 
“Well, frankly, I don’t consider myself one, but 
I'm very fond of nature—and art. It’s one of the 
chief regrets of my life, Mrs. Rutherford, that I never 
saw you act." 

She gave him a quick, almost youthful glance, and 
smiled. “I think you could hardly have been born 
when I left the stage, Mr. Clancy. That was 
thirty years ago." 


over 









—AND ASKS A QUESTION 215 

“But why, Mrs. Rutherford!” exclaimed Peter, 
tragically, “why did you leave the stage before I 
was 5001 ?’’ 

She threw back her white head with a hearty, in¬ 
fectious laugh, and pausing in her slow ascent, she 
turned to him, making a broad, sweeping gesture with 
both hands. 

“The answer is before you,” she said. “ It was this 
infernal—I may say infernal to you, Mr. Clancy, may 
I not?—Well, then, it was this infernal flesh that 
came upon me like a thief in the night, and nothing 
I could do would stop it—so I had to stop—to give 
up my career”—there was bitterness in the beautiful 
voice now—“all on account of—oh, Mr. Clancy, 
who could stand a fat ‘Portia 5 ! Thank God, I had 
sense enough to stop when I did. At least there are 
no grotesque memories of Kate Rohan.” 

Up to this point in the conversation they had 
passed several houses and quite a number of people, 
to whom Mrs. Rutherford had bowed, graciously. 
Now the road before them lay, for a long way, fairly 
level and devoid of any sign of life. Unbroken 
ranks of tall trees threw their leafy shadows across 
the red shale of the road, and the soft whispering of 
the wind only served to accentuate the sense of 
solitude. 

In another mood, Peter would have been sensible 
of the wonderful beauty of the place, but now he saw 
nothing in it but an opportunity, the opportunity 
which he must not miss. 



2 l6 


THE SINISTER MARK 


, Just ahead, in the shadow of a big pine, he saw a 
low, flat ledge of rock, lichen covered on its face and 
strewn above with a generous cushion of soft pine 
needles. 

“You’re tired, Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, gravely. 
“Let’s rest a minute over there.” 

She assented, with a whimsical nod, and allowed 
Peter to place her comfortably upon the rock. Peter 
remained standing just in front of her and regarded 
her in silence for a moment. There was a seriousness 
in his pleasant, homely face that caught her atten¬ 
tion. 

“What is it, Mr. Clancy?” she asked, with a hint 
of perplexity in her deep voice. “Why do you look 
at me as if—why, as if you wanted to ask me a 
question and didn’t quite know what to say-” 

“That’s just it, Mrs. Rutherford,” said Peter, 
eagerly. “That’s just my trouble. There’s some¬ 
thing I want to know—something I must know-” 

“And you think I can tell you?” she asked, won- 
deringly. 

“I know you can tell me, Mrs. Rutherford—if you 
will.” 

She gazed up at him in sheer bewilderment. “I 
can’t think what it can be,” she said, conscious of 
the gravity of the young face before her, “and I 
won’t promise to answer. But I’m curious to know. 
Ask your question, Mr. Clancy.” 

Peter bent his head and said, slowly, with pauses 
between the words: 




217 


—AND ASKS A QUESTION 

“Will you tell me, Mrs. Rutherford, why—on 
Monday, the twenty-ninth of this May—from a pay 
booth in the Vanderbilt Hotel—you called Mary 
Blake’s apartment—and asked to speak to her sister, 
Anne?’’ 



CHAPTER XXII 


“On Monday, the Twenty-ninth of May-” 

A SLOW flush spread over the face of Kate Ruther- 
1 ^ ford, mounting to her snow-white hair. Her 
eyes never left Peter’s. 

“On Monday, the twenty-ninth of May, from the 
Vanderbilt Hotel,” she repeated, slowly. “Yes, I 
did call—I did call her apartment, one day, about that 
time. Well”—a slight pause—“well, what of it? 
What of it, Mr. Clancy?” 

“Don’t you know—why, you must know from 
yesterday’s paper, Mrs. Rutherford, that it was on 
Sunday, the twenty-eighth, that Mary Blake disap¬ 
peared.” 

“And you think”— she studied his face intently— 
“you think I may know where she’s gone?” 

“It would seem on the cards, perhaps.” 

“Well, I don’t.” She threw out her clenched 
hands and looked up at him. There was deep con¬ 
cern in her eyes. “I wish to God I did.” 

Was she acting? Peter thought. And if so, why? 
Aloud he said: 

“How was it that you happened to call her on that 
particular day, Mrs. Rutherford ? And why did you 
cut off so suddenly when-” 


218 






“THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY 


“It was you—it was you who answered the call!” 
she exclaimed, a little light breaking in upon her. 
“What have you to do with this affair, Mr. Clancy? 
Why should I answer your questions? I don't 
see-” 

“You're a friend of Donald Morris's, an old and 
intimate friend,” said Peter, gravely. “You must 
be affected, deeply affected, I should think, by the 
sight of his unhappiness.” 

“Yes,” she said at once. “Yes—and I didn't know 
—I didn't realize completely until this morning. 
But,” she broke off, and cast a keen glance at Peter, 
“forgive me, Mr. Clancy, but I don't see what con¬ 
cern it can be of yours. I know most of Donald’s 
friends—and I never saw you before.” 

“Yet I think I can truly say that I am a friend to 
Donald Morris,” said Peter with evident sincerity. 
“And, aside from that, Mrs. Rutherford, I'm a pro¬ 
fessional detective. I-” 

“Clancy—Peter Clancy,” she exclaimed, quickly. 
“I thought I’d heard that name! Why, you're the 
man Dick Schuyler told me about, several years ago.” 

Peter nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Rutherford, and it was 
Mr. Schuyler who recommended me to Donald 
Morris. They both trust me, I think I can safely 
say. Won’t you trust me, too, Mrs. Rutherford?” 

She looked at him for a long time in silence. Then 
she said: 

“Yes, I think so. ... I think, perhaps, I 
must. . . . It's a terrible responsibility I have 





220 


THE SINISTER MARK 


upon me. I didn’t realize how serious it was until to¬ 
day. . . . And now, I don’t know. . . . 

I can’t be sure what I ought to do. But let me see. 
Ask your questions, Mr. Clancy, and I’ll see if I can 
answer them. What is it you want to know?” 

“I’ve already asked one question that you haven’t 
answered, Mrs. Rutherford,” Peter said with a little 
smile. “ Perhaps you don’t realize that you haven’t.” 

“No,” she said, her straight black eyebrows drawn 
together in a thoughtful frown. “What was the 
question ? ” 

“I asked you how you happened to call Miss 
Blake’s apartment on the day after she disappeared ?” 

“Oh, yes. I remember, you did ask me that. 
Well,” she spoke slowly, “it was because of a letter 
I’d just received from her. It had just come in, and 
I got it at the hotel desk when I turned in my key. I 
was so worried about it that I went immediately to a 
booth and called her up.” 

“Yes, but what was in the letter?” asked Peter, 
eagerly. “ Did she say where she was going, or why ? ” 

“That was what puzzled, worried me,” said Mrs. 
Rutherford, frowning still more. “It was a—a 
sort of wild letter. I couldn’t understand it. She 
said she was going away. That she might never 
come back. ... It sounded desperate. . . 

She thanked me for all I had been to her. Asked me 
to forgive her. . . . Not that I had anything to 

forgive. The whole thing was my fault, if there was 
a fault.” She paused, and added, “And that was 


221 


“THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY-” 

all, Mr. Clancy. There was nothing else in the 
letter. I give you my word, that was all.” 

Disappointment was written large on Peter’s face. 

Kate Rutherford went on: “I thought that possi¬ 
bly she might not have gone, so I called her apart¬ 
ment at once. I wanted to see her, to dissuade her, 
if possible. Her career ... it seemed a shame— 
a terrible waste. I couldn’t understand why, when she 

had reached the height we all crave, she should- 

And then I found she wasn’t there. That there were 
strangers in the apartment. I couldn’t imagine why. 
I was frightened, and rang off. I knew it would be 
no use to go down there. She had said definitely, 
in her letter, that she was going away at once. It 
was only on a bare chance that I called up-” 

“I—see,” said Peter, slowly. He thought in 
silence for a moment. Then he dropped down upon 
the rock, bringing his face on a level with the clever, 
mobile face of old “Kate Rohan.” 

“You said, a few minutes ago—” he hesitated—“I 
think you admitted, Mrs. Rutherford, that you felt 
concerned for Donald Morris.” 

“Yes,” she said, quickly. “I had no idea, until 
I read that article in the paper last night—and saw 
Donald this morning—I knew, of course, that he was 
interested in Mary Blake. He made no secret of it. 
But Don has had a great many women friends, and 
he had the artist’s enthusiastic way of speaking of 
them—I didn’t realize that this was really serious.” 

“But you do realize it now?” 






222 


THE SINISTER MARK 

“Yes,” she replied, sadly. “Yes. I think there 
can be no doubt. The poor boy-” 

“Mrs. Rutherford,” Peter said, leaning forward 
and watching her face, “do you know of a reason 
why Donald Morris should not marry Miss Blake?” 

There was a long silence. The majestic old lady 
leaned slightly forward, her tightly clasped hands 
resting on her ample knees. Her white head was 
bent, her eyes fixed on the ground. After what 
seemed to Peter a long time, she said: 

“I—I think she would have—must have felt—that 
there was a reason.” 

“And do you feel that it was a reason, Mrs. 
Rutherford ? A sufficient reason ? ” 

“I ”—she raised her head, and threw out her hands 
in an expressive gesture—“I don’t know. I don’t 
know how I would have felt, Mr. Clancy. Knowing 
Donald as I do—no, I don’t know how I would have 
felt,” she repeated, disconsolately. 

“Will you tell me the reason, Mrs. Rutherford?” 
said Peter, with deep seriousness in his tone. “I 
know a good deal. But I need to know more. I 
can’t form a definite plan until I’m sure. I’ve made 
some guesses—just to-day and yesterday—that have 
sent me off on a new tack. If what I’ve suddenly 
come to believe turns out to be true, I think there’s 
a chance, possibly a remote chance, of finding—of 
finding Miss Blake.” 

“You think—you think there is?” There was an 
eager light in the expressive old eyes. 






“THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY-” 223 

“I think there may be,” said Peter, evasively. 
“But I can do nothing without your help, Mrs. 
Rutherford. That 1 s my trouble. I must know the 
whole story, as I am sure that you, and you only, can 
tell it. All I am certain of, at the present time, is 
that Rosamond and Anne Curwood (whom I first 
heard of as Mary and Anne Blake) were the twin 
daughters of a man called Winthrop Curwood, who 
lived somewhere up in the mountains, between here 
and Hobart Falls.” 

“Winthrop Curwood! You know, then, of Win¬ 
throp Curwood ?” exclaimed Mrs. Rutherford, sitting 
up straight, and looking at Peter in surprise. 

“I know that he was the father, and that he was 
blind,” said Peter. 

“Yes, blind,” sighed Mrs. Rutherford. “Poor 
Win!” 

“You knew him, then?” said Peter, quick to note 
the familiar use of the name. 

“Oh, yes. I knew Win Curwood well. Very 
well, indeed,” said Mrs. Rutherford, sadly. “You’re 
too young to remember, but he was leading man at 
the Athenaeum and I played opposite to him for two 
seasons.” 

“Ah, I—see,” said Peter. “An actor. That 
explains—but go on, Mrs. Rutherford. Tell me 
about him. How he came to be here, in this out-of- 
the-way part of the country—who he was—every¬ 
thing. He was an Englishman, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes, and well known in England. Arthur Quinni 




224 


THE SINISTER MARK 


saw him play in London and made him a big offer 
to come over here. He joined the company while it 
was still at its best, and he was a great addition. A 
wonderful actor, and handsome almost beyond be¬ 
lief. He was younger than I by a number of years 
but we soon became great friends. I was jealous of 
him, of course/’ with raised eyebrows and a whimsical 
smile, “but not so much as I might have been, per¬ 
haps. He was very generous and tactful, and after 
all, at that time, I didn’t have much need to fear a 
rival in popularity.” There was an expression in 
the great, dark eyes, half sad, half amused at the 
recollection. 

“He was with us only two seasons,” she continued. 
“I remember it was in the middle of the second winter 
that I began to notice that he wasn’t quite himself. 
He hadn’t quite the same certainty of movement, 
and once, during performance, when he stumbled 
against a low table and overturned it, I felt sure that 
he had been drinking. I said nothing at the time, but 
afterward I spoke to him—and he told me. He was 
going blind! Think of it, Mr. Clancy. Going blind, 
with no hope! ... I don’t think he confided in 
any one but me until the very end. He managed to 
get through the season—it would have left Arthur 
Quinn and the company in an awful hole if he hadn’t, 
and with my help—I played up to him and helped 
him as well as I was able—he saw it through. . . . 

And then, simply disappeared. He did tell Arthur 
Quinn (the manager, you know) why he would not 



“THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY-” 225 

be able to play again. . . . And that was the 

last any of us ever saw, and the last for a great many 
years that I ever heard, of Winthrop Curwood. ,, 

The deep tones ceased, and Peter saw that there 
was a mist in the fine old eyes. After a moment he 
said, gently: 

“And then, after many years, you met Anne Cur- 
wood/" 

She roused herself at that and looked at Peter. 

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “I don’t know how you 
found that out—but it doesn’t matter. Yes, I saw 
Anne Curwood, and curiously enough, too, it was at 
Helena Atterbury’s house that I saw her first.’’ 

Peter started in surprise. “At Mrs. Atterbury’s 
house!” he exclaimed. “Why, then, Morris must 
have seen her—must have seen Anne Blake!” 

Mrs. Rutherford shook her head. “I don’t know 
whether he ever saw her, or if he did, whether he 
noticed her or would have given her a thought if he 
had. She was doing menial work—Win Curwood’s 
daughter: I can hardly bear to think of it. 

And, too, she was painfully shy and self-conscious.” 

“On account of that birthmark,” Peter inter¬ 
jected. 

Mrs. Rutherford gave him a quick look, but went 
on at once, as if he had not spoken—“You see, she 
appeared to be only a servant, after all. She came 
in to do cleaning by the day. There was a great 
scarcity of help here that year and we all had to 
manage as well as we could. That was how I came 



226 


THE SINISTER MARK 


to speak with her. I was telling Helena about a lot 
of trouble I was having with the servants, and she 
said she thought I might be able to get Anne Cur- 
wood for at least one day a week. At the moment 
I thought nothing of the name, but when I saw her 
and heard her speak—well, I became interested and 
engaged her at once for two days a week. After a 
time, when she became used to me and my ways, I 
asked her, point blank, about her father—and estab¬ 
lished, to my own satisfaction, that she was, really, 
the daughter of my old friend, Win Curwood. ,, 

“Did she tell you, at that time, about her sister, 
Rosamond ?” asked Peter. 

“No, it was later, much later, that I learned about 
the sister,” she answered, quietly. 

“You found her after you'd taken Anne to New 
York as your companion?” 

Mrs. Rutherford slowly turned her head, and 
looked long into Peter’s eyes. Then Peter did a 
curious thing. They were all alone, in the deep 
solitude of the leafy woods. There was no one, 
apparently, within miles of them, certainly no one 
within earshot, but Peter leaned forward, and with 
his keen eyes fixed on Kate Rutherford’s face, he 
whispered, just above his breath, one sentence—only 
one—but the effect was electrical. 

She started forward and grasped his arm with 
clutching fingers. Her face was white. 

“How—how did you guess?” she asked,breath¬ 
lessly. 




CHAPTER XXIII 
A Midnight Errand 


"TNONALD MORRIS paced nervously back and 
forth, back and forth, upon the wide, ground- 
floor veranda of his sister’s house. He could look out 
along the road up which Clancy had gone, hours be¬ 
fore, with Mrs. Rutherford. 

As the slow minutes dragged themselves away, 
his impatience mounted, but he kept himself in hand. 
Clancy knew his business—of that he was convinced 
—but what possible connection it could have with 
Mrs. Rutherford he was at a loss to determine. 

The luncheon hour had come and gone, and it was 
after three o’clock when Donald, eagerly watching, 
saw Clancy make the turn which brought him into 
sight, and saw him coming at a run down the sloping 
road. 

“What has happened, Clancy?” Donald cried, 
impetuously, as they came close. “Where have you 
been all these hours?” 

Peter’s face was red with hurry and excitement. 

“I—I can’t stop to explain,” he panted. “I’ve 
only just time to make the train. I must be in New 
York to-night.” He caught Donald’s arm. “Is 
there a taxi I can get? The train leaves Tollenville 

227 


228 


THE SINISTER MARK 


in fifteen minutes. There’s only barely time. Oh, 
Mr. Morris, for the love of God, don’t stare at me like 
that. Tell me how to get a taxi. Quick! 5 ' 

Peter’s excitement communicated itself to Morris. 
He was bewildered, astonished. He longed intensely 
to ask the questions for which there was no time, but 
Peter’s insistence was overpowering. 

“I’ll get a car for you here,” he said, swiftly. 
“Saunders will make the train if it’s a possibility. 
Your bag’s still on the porch. Get it, while I-” 

He dashed across the lawn and around the corner 
of the house. In a moment, Peter heard the thin 
buzz of a starter, followed instantly by the heavy, 
rhythmic hum as the engine picked up, and in a few 
seconds more a big car rolled around the corner of 
the house. 

Donald Morris was standing on the running board. 
He dropped off as the car slowed down, and Peter, 
bag in hand, jumped into the seat beside the chauf¬ 
feur. 

“Give her gas, Saunders,” cried Morris. “You 
haven’t a minute to spare. Good-bye, Clancy! 
For God’s sake write or wire me.” 

“I’ll let you know! I’ll let you know the min¬ 
ute-” Peter’s voice was drowned by the roar of 

the engine as the car swung away. 

Down the broad road and through the great park 
gate the big car honked and whirred. Past pictur¬ 
esque artists’ cottages and white-painted farmhouses 
it fled, and then, with slightly slackened pace, it 




A MIDNIGHT ERRAND 


229 

rolled between ugly ranks of mountain boarding 
houses, down to the busy, noisy little station, where 
the train stood, panting to be gone. 

It was already in motion when Peter leaped upon 
the step, breathless, without a ticket, but thanking 
his lucky stars that he was in time. 

The train was crowded, and Peter had to wedge 
himself in beside a fat, jewelled lady, who ate fre¬ 
quently and copiously from greasy paper packages 
all the way to the junction, but Peter did not even 
notice the discomfort, so occupied was he with his 
own thoughts. 

They were briefly broken in upon when the con¬ 
ductor demanded a ticket, but after Peter had paid 
for one, and ascertained that he would have time to 
send a telegram from the junction, he relapsed again 
into depths of intricate speculation. 

At the junction he sent a telegram to O’Malley: 


Made peace with D. M. Returning tonight, 
leave again at once. Will call up if time. 


May have to 
Pete. 


He had considered telegraphing Morris from the 
same place, but had decided against it. 

“I only have a hunch that I know where to look,” 
he thought. “ Better not raise hopes till I’m sure. 
It’s a damn shame to keep him in suspense, but I 
don’t see any other way. . . . No, I’ll let it ride 

as is for the present.” 

The afternoon waned, the sun went down in a mass 


THE SINISTER MARK 


230 

of soft clouds, and night came stealing on. The 
train was badly lighted, but Peter did not mind. 
He had no wish to read. He had plenty to occupy his 
mind, and it did not matter to him that the train was 
not due until after ten o’clock. What he had to do 
in town would better be done late at night. 

“Just so I get there before midnight,” thought 
Peter, glancing, absently, at his watch—“Nine- 
forty-five—Nine! Why, we must be-” 

He had changed cars at the junction and had been 
able there to get a window seat. It had become cold 
and damp after sunset, and he had closed the window. 
Now he made a shadow, with his hand, upon the 
glass, and looked out. He could see nothing; not a 
light or other sign of human habitation, and suddenly 
he realized that the train was running very slowly. 

“I wonder what’s up?” he thought, slightly 
troubled but not yet anxious. “Guess I’ll see if I 
can find out.” 

He stepped cautiously over the feet of an elderly 
man who was slumbering noisily in the other half of 
the seat, made his way down the dull and smoky 
aisle, and gained the platform. Stepping down one 
step, he clung to the hand rail and leaned far out. 

Fog. Fog everywhere, thick and gray. The 
lights from the coaches fell on it as on an opaque veil 
of floating gauze. Peter, cursing inwardly, went 
forward into the smoking car. Here he found men 
hanging out of open windows, looking down the 
track, and exchanging speculations, just then the 





A MIDNIGHT ERRAND 231 

conductor came through, a lantern swinging by his 
side. 

“What's up?” said Peter, addressing him anx¬ 
iously. 

“Little foggy,” said the conductor, passing rapidly 
forward. 

“Oh, he won't tell you nothing,” said a man in the 
seat near which Peter was standing. “They're 
always mum as an oyster when there’s any trouble. 
They say there’s a wreck ahead.” 

“Oh, my God!” ejaculated Peter, in a tone which 
was half profanity, half prayer. 

He looked again at his watch. They were due in 
five minutes now, but were still, obviously, far from 
their destination. 

“The doors will be closed at twelve o'clock,” 
thought Peter, “and if I’m too late-” 

Just then the train came to a grinding stop. 

Peter hurried to the door and down the steps. He 
paused on the bottom one and, hanging on to the hand 
rail, swung out so that he could see down the line. 

Ahead of the engine a red lantern bobbed along 
beside the track, close to the ground. Still farther 
ahead another red light, apparently suspended in 
mid air, winked through the mist. He could hear 
raised voices in the smoking car behind him, and 
several men came out on the platform, talking excit¬ 
edly. Minutes passed and then, to Peter’s infinite 
satisfaction, in a breath, the light against the foggy 
sky changed from red to green. 



232 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“Thank God,” said Peter, as, with the successive 
jerk of couplings, the train moved slowly ahead. 

Peter regained his seat in an anxious frame of 
mind. He had reached a point in his intricate prob¬ 
lem where his impatient spirit could brook no 
further delay. The train did not again come to a 
complete standstill, but its progress through the fog 
was agonizingly slow. Many times he looked at his 
watch, many times he shaded the glass of the window 
to peer outside. The fog had changed to heavy mist, 
and it became more and more difficult to form any 
idea as to where they were. 

And then, when it seemed as if time had ceased, 
and that a lost train was wandering wearily through 
the fogs of the ages, a big arc light flashed through 
the window—another, and another. Lighted win¬ 
dows were all about. The train roared and rumbled 
into a cut, and Peter, with a sigh of relief, realized 
that he was near his journey’s end. 

He was the first person to alight from the train 
when it clanked and hissed into the station. He 
stood on the forward deck of the ferry boat, and im¬ 
patiently watched the slowly nearing lights of the 
great, dim city, wherein all his hopes were centred. 
He was the first passenger to reach the rough block 
pavement of its streets, and in a moment he was 
whirling through them as fast as, and perhaps faster 
than, the traffic laws permit. 

He dismissed his cab at a dark corner of Washing¬ 
ton Square, and once more, a little before midnight. 


A MIDNIGHT ERRAND 


233 

in a dripping mist, Peter crept along the south side of 
Waverly Place. 

His soft whistle, twice repeated, brought the faith¬ 
ful Rawlins from the shelter of a doorway. 

“Is it yourself, back again so soon, Mr. Clancy?” 
he asked, superfluously. “And have you come to tell 
me that I can go home and to bed this cheerful night, 
please God?” 

Peter ignored the question. 

“I’m in a hurry, Rawlins,” he said, quickly. “Is 
the coast clear? I want to go up to the apartment 
again.” 

“You can chase yourself right along then,” said 
Rawlins, promptly. “I seen the dago go out half an 
hour ago, and he hasn’t come back yet. If you 
hustle-” 

Peter did not wait to hear more. He slipped across 
through the mist and up the worn brown steps. 
He found the vestibule door open. The inner door 
was closed but not locked. He was in time. 

Softly, soundlessly, he ascended the dim stairs, 
one flight, two flights, three. Again he inserted his 
duplicate key in the lock, as he had two nights before 
—only two nights, but what a difference there was in 
the feeling with which he listened to the soft click of 
the lock as the bolt threw back. Then it had been a 
forlorn hope. Now- 

He closed the door softly, and went without hesi¬ 
tation into the living room, in the front, setting down 
his handbag just inside the door. Again he pulled 




THE SINISTER MARK 


234 

down the shades at the three big windows, but this 
time there was no uncertainty in the movements 
which followed. 

Flashlight in hand, he went quickly over to the 
desk and turned on the small electric lamp. Then, 
slipping the flash into his pocket, he immediately 
crossed the room and took down with care the pile 
of magazines which were in the corner of the top 
book-shelf. 

He carried them over to the desk, and in the light 
of the candle lamp went through them, one by one. 
The pages passed swiftly through his fingers with a 
soft, fluttering noise which sounded loud in the still¬ 
ness, but Peter did not hear it, so intent was he upon 
his odd quest. 

He looked like a student, as he sat there at mid¬ 
night, with bent head, poring over the pile of maga¬ 
zines, but he read nothing. His swift fingers turned 
the pages, one by one, without pause, until he came 
to a place where an article had been cut away. 
Then he stopped, drew out a little leather book from 
his pocket, and made an entry—the name and date 
of the magazine and the number of the page. He did 
this with each magazine in turn, working methodi¬ 
cally down through the pile until all were finished. 

“I may be a damfool,” he said to himself, with a 
tired sigh as he rose from his cramped position, and 
lifting the mass of magazines, replaced them on the 
shelf. “If I am, lam. That’s all. But it’s a bet, a 
good bet, Pete. Even that wise old Mrs. Rutherford 


A MIDNIGHT ERRAND 235 

thought so—and we’re not passing any of ’em up. 
. . . Now, let’s see. There’s one thing more— 

may not be any use, but it’s better to get the whole 
dope now I’m on the spot. It was the Planet. I 
remember that, and the date was—no, I’m not ex¬ 
actly sure—the twenty-fourth, or the twenty-fifth— 
and I’ve no idea what page. Better make sure-” 

Peter never knew exactly why he turned out the 
light in the living room then. Some habitual in¬ 
stinct of caution, perhaps. At any rate, he did turn 
it out, and guided his steps by his flashlight only 
as he made his way down the long, narrow hall to the 
storeroom. 

Here he proceeded again, swiftly, unhesitatingly. 
He lit the gas, and dropped to his knees beside the 
big trunk. There was a faint jingle as he selected a 
key from the big bunch which he took from his pocket 
and inserted it in the lock, a click as the bolt was re¬ 
leased. There was not a sound when he carefully 
raised the lid and folded back the garments on top, 
until he came to a bundle wrapped in newspaper. 

This he lifted out and looked again at the wrap¬ 
ping. “The Planet , May twenty-fifth—and the page 
—the fourth page,” he muttered. “This, probably, 
has nothing to do with the case. There’d be likely 
to be a notice of the closing of ‘Dark Roads’ that 
she’d have wanted to keep—but, anyway, now I’ve 
got the whole bag of tricks—and that’s all I can do 
to-night, thank Heaven. Gee, but I’m tired!” He 
pushed his hand up through his hair, tilting his hat. 





THE SINISTER MARK 


236 

which he had not removed, to an acute angle, and 
again he said, with feeling, “Thank Heaven, I’m 
through!” 

Then he replaced the package and closed and 
locked the trunk. He had just turned the key, and 
was still upon his knees, when his whole body sud¬ 
denly stiffened. With a spring, he was upon his feet, 
and with one swift, soundless motion, he had turned 
out the light. Then he waited, every muscle tense, 
listening. 

In the solid darkness, far away at the other end of 
the hall, he heard the unmistakable sound of a key 
cautiously turned in a lock. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“Hands Up!” 


HERE was silence, absolute silence, and dark- 



“■* ness impenetrable. Peter waited, breathless, 
listening, the one available sense sharpened to pre¬ 
ternatural acuteness. 

Then faintly, faintly he heard the outer door move 
on its hinges, heard a tiny click as it closed again, 
was aware of a little gleam of light stealing along the 
floor, and of stealthy footsteps, coming nearer and 
nearer, as the light perceptibly increased. 

Inch by inch, without a sound, Peter crept behind 
the storeroom door. His right hand closed firmly 
on the edge and he drew it toward him, widening the 
crack between the door and the jamb sufficiently to 
be able to see the midnight intruder, if he—or she— 
came that far along the hall. 

Softly the cautious, secret footsteps continued their 
advance. The light was a distinct ray now, and Peter 
drew back into the shadow, keeping his eyes in a line 
with the narrow aperture. Then the light became a 
small, blinding circle, and as it flashed away Peter 
caught a dim glimpse of the figure behind it. The 
reflected light from the w r all brought out the whites 
of the eyes and, less distinctly, the features of the face. 

237 



THE SINISTER MARK 


238 

Peter gave a little inward gasp of satisfaction. 
His right hand slipped swiftly back, with an accus¬ 
tomed gesture, and when he brought it forward again 
it was not empty. Silent and quick as a cat, he slid 
around the edge of the door. Three long, noiseless 
steps—a ring of cold steel pressed against a sweating 
neck, and: 

“Hands up, Angelo!” 

The voice was low and stern, filled with icy menace. 

There was a crash and a sobbing oath. Two 
trembling hands shot up into the air and remained 
there, rigid, protesting mutely against any need for 
violence. 

“Keep ’em up, and turn around,” said Peter, in a 
fierce whisper, pulling out his own strong flashlight 
to take the place of Angelo’s little, cheap one which 
had fallen to the floor. “So—it was you—you, all 
the time, Angelo! I might have known. An inside 
job—yes, it was an inside job, all right. I knew that 
from the start, and I’ve had you watched all along. 
You hear! And now I’ve caught you—you!” 

The little Italian shook and shivered, blinking in 
the blinding light, glancing fearfully from Peter’s face 
to the small, blue-black instrument of death which 
pointed so unerringly at his pounding heart. 

“Don’ shoot! Don’ shoot, Boss,” he pleaded in a 
sobbing whisper. “Me do noding, noding only justa 
lika you say! Oh, Santa Maria dell’ Angeli, put up 
dat damma gun!” 

Still fixing the trembling wretch with menacing 


“HANDS UP!” 239 

eyes, Peter slowly dropped his hand and slid his small 
automatic into the side pocket of his coat. 

“I’ll shoot you through my pocket if you make a 
move, Angelo,” he hissed. “And I’d rather do it 
than not, see! Make no mistake about that. Now, 
come with me,” and he seized the janitor roughly by 
the wrist. 

“Ug-g-gh!” Angelo cringed and caught Peter’s 
grasping hand with his left. “Take hoF furder up,” 
he begged. “Gotta da sore arm, me—ver’ bad.” 

Peter loosened his fingers just enough to disclose a 
long, scarcely healed cut across the inner side of the 
man’s wrist. He looked sharply at it and at Angelo, 
then shifted his hold higher on the forearm. 

“I don’t know r why you think I ought to be tender 
of your feelings, you scoundrel,” he said, gruffly. 
“But come in where we can get a light. I w T ant to 
have a heart-to-heart talk with you, you lying, 
thieving, murdering-Hell! What’s that ? ” 

As he turned, Peter’s foot struck hard against 
something which lay upon the floor. 

“Datta da silv’!” Angelo w r ailed, softly. “Come 
putta him back—me.” 

“Pick it up and bring it in here,” ordered Peter, 
sternly. “And don’t try any tricks. I warn 

f y 

you - 

Obediently, the Italian stooped, and picking up a 
rather large package, roughly wrapped in newspapers, 
preceded Peter to the dining room, where Peter 
swiftly lit the gas. 




240 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“Now,” said Peter, “you sit there. And keep 
your hands above the table.” 

He drew up a chair on the opposite side, and osten¬ 
tatiously laid his automatic close beside him upon the 
dusty mahogany. 

“Now, Angelo,” he said, grimly, “you’re going to 
tell me how you killed Miss Mary Blake.” 

“Ah, Jesus Maria!” cried the little Italian, in 
agony, lifting his trembling, shaking hands in the 
air, and looking at Peter with staring, panic-stricken 
eyes. “Me no killa! Me! Mees Mary she go ’way 
—sist’ go ’way! Nobod’ here. Nobod’! Me no 
killa nobod’ no time!” 

Peter’s eyes narrowed as he looked fixedly at the 
man’s face. 

“Did she tell you she was going away?—Miss 
Mary, did she tell you?” he asked, earnestly. 

Angelo nodded quickly, and then shook his head. 

“What does that mean?” asked Peter, angrily. 
“Yes or no? You’re a liar anyway, Angelo. You 
said you thought they were still here. Now which is 
it? Yes or no?” 

“Non, no! Mees Mary’ sist’, she tella me—Mees 
Anne!” 

“And what did she tell you? Think carefully, 
Angelo. Your life depends on what you say now. 
You’ve got to convince me that you didn’t murder 
one or both of them. I can send you to the chair if 
you don’t, see! Take your time, but tell me exactly 
what Miss Anne said.” 



‘‘HANDS UP!” 


241 

The little Italian, thus tenderly admonished, was 
a pitiful sight to see. His brown face was a sickly 
colour, like that of cocoa with too much milk in it. 
His forehead was covered with beads of perspiration 
to which his dark hair clung when he removed the 
shaking hand which had been pressed against it. 
His heart may have been in his throat, for he gulped 
once or twice, spasmodically, before he spoke: 

“Telia you da trut’ now, Boss, by da great San 
Michaelo an alia da Ange\” He crossed himself 
fervently, and raised his tense hand high in the air. 
“Telia da trut’, now, sure! Telia da lie once, me— 
but no any more. Dis da trut’. Si. Si. ” 

He dropped his hand. Peter leaned forward, fix¬ 
ing him with unwinking eyes. 

“All right,” said Peter. “ But you’ve got to make 
good this time, understand. Come across with it. 
What did Miss Anne say, and when was it ? ” 

“On Sunday morn’, early, ver’ early. Mees Anne 
she come down w’en me wash vestabula. She say, 
‘Angelo, my sist’ she go ’way las’ night. Me go to¬ 
day. May stay longa time. Da rent he is pay 
t’ree mont’. Me fixa ev’t’ing. No needa you go 
inna da flat. Ev’t’ing alia righta.”’ He threw his 
hands out, palms upward. “An’ dat alia she say. 
But she no leava da house till five in da eve’. See 
her in tax’ wit’ bigga da tronk. She go herself, an’ 
sist’ she go night before. Me no killa eith’ one, me! 
No! No! Believa me—no! Madre de Dio, Boss, 
me tella da trut’!” 



242 


THE SINISTER MARK 


“That sounds all right, Angelo. You say it easy,” 
said Peter, still glowering. “ But I’ve only your word 
for it. And how about all that blood we found, 
spilled around the apartment, and that big spot on 
Miss Mary’s scarf? How can you account for-” 

“Signore! Boss! Listen!” broke in the excited 
Italian. Jumping up from his chair, he supported 
his trembling body with one hand, pressed flat down, 
upon the table, while with the other he gesticulated 
wildly. “Me tella you ’bout alia blood, how he come. 
He was alia from dis, from dis! ” He raised his right 
hand, and with the left struck the wounded wrist 
rapidly, many times. “He cutta himself on wind’ 
in kitch’.” 

“On the window in the kitchen. That’s a likely 
story,” said Peter, in apparent disgust. “Why, 
that was a month ago, Angelo. It would have healed 
twice over in that time, if-” 

“Non. No!” Angelo interrupted, passionately. 
“He not come well. He stay sick—all swella up. 
He hurta lika hell. I t’ink he punishmen’— Si, si /” 

“Punishment for what, Angelo? If you didn’t 
murder Miss Blake, what was there to be punished 
for?” 

“Non. No!” Angelo reiterated the agitated dis¬ 
claimer. “No murd’! No murd’! Me tella da 
trut’!” 

“You said that before,” said Peter, sternly. 

“Ye-ah, ye-ah! Alla right! Now I tella. See, 
Boss. Listen! Me gotta sick wife. Maria. Si, si. 




“HANDS UP!” 


243 

She ver’, ver’ sick, longa time. Doc’ say she mus’ go 
countree. Me no gotta da mon’—dat’s easy. How 
me getta da mon’? No good. Can do noding, me. 
Den, Boss, listen. Night before Mees Anne an’ 
Mees Mary go ’way me hava da dream—longa 

dream-” His voice dropped, and his eyes were 

wide. “All inna da dream me see nombre—7741. 
Jus’ lika dat—7741. . . . Inna da morn’ me 

tella Maria. She say mus’ be nombre for lot’-” 

“Lot?” asked Peter, frowning, and then, a light 
breaking—“Lottery—you mean lottery?” 

“St/ Si! Si! ” Many nods. “St, lot’! Me 
t’ink lika Maria, ye-ah, me t’ink lucky nombre! 
But,” a shrug, “no gotta da mon’. Den, alia same 
day, dat ver’ same Sunday—Mees Anne, she go ’way. 
. . . Mees Anne gone—sist’ gone—me t’ink— 

lil’ dev’ whisp’—me bor’ some lil’ t’ings—no steala, 
bor’, see? I can—what you say?—pawna da silv’, da 
ringa, da necklace, da pin—an’ bringa back w’en 
lucky nombre come, I maka some mon’, see?” 

“I see what you mean me to think,” said Peter, 
gruffly. “Go on.” 

“So-o—me come up here—late—alia dark, but me 
hava da lil’ flasha light, see? Come in—looka all 
roun’—in desk, in draw’, alia place. . . . Nod¬ 
ing—no ringa, no necklace, no pin. . . . Come 

outa here—fin’ silv’, lotta silv’ in draw’ an’ onnada 
top. Me maka him in bund’, queek, queek! Me 
getta him all-read’! Den, presto, I t’ink—Mees 
Blake, she come back—maybe somebod’ come befora 










244 THE SINISTER MARK 

da lot’ is draw. Who gotta da key but Angelo? 
Den gotta fright’, me, Boss. Gotta ver’ bada fright’. 
. . . T’ink, queek! queek!—me feex so dey t’ink 

t’ief, he come flre-’scape. Sure. Si, si, ha! Go in 
kitch’—me slip queek over by wind’—den! S-s-h! 
Me hear biga, longa ringa, downstair’ on bell! Me 
stop—listen. Know I mus’ go down, queek!—Hava 
da big bun’ of silv’ onna da arm!—What I do? All 
afraid dey catch Angelo! Mus’ feex so dey t’ink 
t’ief come from da outside, see? . . . Queek, 

queek—me smasha da wind’ right by da lock—so! 
Diavolo! feel cutta on da wris’. Grab him queek—go 
run inna da hall. Me know he isa bleed’, so pull 
outa da bandan’—he red, so no can see da bleed— 
wind him roun’ tight!—All I do, fas’, fas’—alia tima 
da bell ring- 

“I know it is da groun’ floor. Dat lady, she alia 
time forgetta da key—so I run down queek, an’ leava 
da bun’ in dark onna da stair. . . . I go open da 

door—it is da groun’ floor, lika I know—an’ t’inka 
me alia right now!—Santa Maria!” It was a bitter 
wail, and overcome by a succession of troubles, the 
poor wretch laid his head down on the table and 
sobbed. 

The grim austerity of Peter’s face softened. 

“And what is this, Angelo?” he asked, touching 
the newspaper-wrapped package which was lying be¬ 
side him on the table. 

“Da silv’, da silv’!” moaned Angelo, without 
raising his head. “Me tella you, it was da silv’.” 



“HANDS UP!” 


245 

Peter drew the package toward him and pulled off 
the string which held it fast, disclosing a number of 
pieces of flat silver and a small coffee service. 

“Is it all here?” asked Peter, quietly. 

The rough head upon the table moved up and 
down in assent. 

“ But how did you get it back ? ” Peter’s voice had 
taken a new tone. “1 thought you lost out when 
the lottery was drawn.” 

Angelo was too far gone to notice this evidence of 
Peter’s omniscience. 

“Playa da same nombre twice—two day’,” 
muttered Angelo. “ Firs’ day—lose; secon’ day he 
come alia right, lika dream.” 

“And as soon as you won you took the silver out 
of hock and brought it back?” 

Again the silent nod. 

Peter sat back in his chair and looked for a long 
time at the rough, bowed head. At last he spoke, 
and in his voice was a half-quizzical kindliness. 

“You’re a great rascal, Angelo, and a stupid fool 
to boot, and you’ve made me a lot of trouble, dam¬ 
mit. But I believe you’ve told me the truth at 
last-” 

Angelo raised his stricken head. A gleam of some¬ 
thing like hope shone in his eyes. 

“Yes,” Peter went on, “I believe you’ve told me 
the truth, and I will say it’s helped to clear things up. 
But now, listen. One thing more—how did Miss 
Blake’s scarf come to be stained with blood, and how 




246 THE SINISTER MARK 

did it happen to be just where we found it?” Peter 
was thinking aloud more than he was addressing 
Angelo. “It fell down behind the trunk, and no¬ 
body noticed it. The cabman pulled it along the 
hall when it caught on the bottom of the trunk, and 
he shook, or kicked it loose, just at the hall door. 
. . . And afterward, that same night, you 

chanced to walk over it, and it must have caught 
—that sort of soft, fringy thing would catch on any¬ 
thing—a rough place on your shoe, perhaps. . . . 

You dragged it across the sill, and when the door 
shut, it held the scarf fast. . . . But the 

blood on it? If you bound up your wrist I don’t 
quite see-” 

“Sz, si!” cried Angelo. “But looka, looka, Boss. 
Listen! Me feex da bandan’ ’roun’ him—so, an* hoi’ 
him fas’, but w’en I comma to da door, mus’ use bot’ 

han’, see? Lika dis-” He made the motion of 

turning two knobs at once, and Peter remembered 
that it was necessary to do this in order to open the 
hall door. “I mus’ let him go, an’ da blood, he 
jumpa out an’ fall onna da door. You showa me da 
place, Boss! You no remember?” 

“And it fell on the scarf just below,” Peter nodded, 
slowly. “Yes, I see. I guess that’s right, Angelo. 
I guess that explains—well, and that’s that,” he 
added, rising to his feet. “ Put the silver back where 
you found it, Angelo—so—that the way it was ? All 
right. Now,” he laid his hand heavily on the Ital¬ 
ian’s shoulder, “come with me.” 




“HANDS UP!” 


247 

Angelo drew a deep sigh, and slowly twisted his 
head to look up into Peter’s face. What he saw 
there caused him to start—to cry out—and then, 
with head bent before the array of silver he had been 
honest enough to redeem, to sob out his heart in a 
long string of thankful, reverent profanity. 


CHAPTER XXV 
A High Wall 


HE doors of the great columned facade of the 



New York Public Library were scarcely opened, 
on the following day, when a young man with eager 
Irish blue eyes and very red hair might have been, 
and probably was, seen, at least by the doorkeeper, 
making his way toward the Periodical Room. 

Probably, too, he was remembered for some little 
time by the young librarian in charge of the maga¬ 
zines, for not only was he of exceptionally pleasant 
address, but his wants, though definite, were aston¬ 
ishingly varied. 

He spent some time in going over the magazines 
which were brought to him, made several notes in a 
little worn leather-covered book, and once, when he 
referred back to places he had marked with cards in 
two previously examined periodicals, and compared 
them with the one in his hand, there was a gleam of 
satisfaction, triumph, perhaps, in his eye. 

At last he rose, and passing into the newspaper 
department, consulted a file of the New York Planet 
for May. After that he left the library and pro¬ 
ceeded, as rapidly as possible, to a small office build¬ 
ing near Broadway, where the sign “ Clancy and 


A HIGH WALL 


249 

O’Malley” was modestly displayed in bronze upon 
the side post of the entrance. 

“Well, O’Malley,” said Peter, plunging into his 
partner’s private office, “I’ve had one hell of a time!” 

“That so?” said the old man, looking up with a 
hearty, welcoming glance into the face of his young 
colleague. “I got your wire, Pete. Glad you fixed 
it up with Morris. Sit down, lad, and tell me all 
about it.” 

“Gee, O’Malley, I’d like to,” said Peter, wearily, 
“but I can’t tell yet whether I’ll have the time. 
Oh, there you are, Jack,” he broke off as a boy came 
into the room with several time-tables in his hand. 

“That’s quick work, son. Now, let’s see-” 

He dropped down upon a chair beside the desk, 
and began running through the time-tables at a 
rapid rate. 

“Are you off again, Pete?” asked O’Malley, 
anxiously. “You look done up, boy. I know your 

wire said that you might have to-” 

“Yes, and it spoke the truth,” said Peter, hur¬ 
riedly. “I’ve got to get the next train for Chicago 
that will connect with one going down to Cordenham. 
Cordenham,” he repeated, running his finger down a 

column of names. “ Here we are—Cordenham-” 

“For the love of Mike, Peter,” said O’Malley, 
“what the devil, and where the devil is Cordenham?” 

“I don’t know yet what the devil it may turn out 
to be,” said Peter, still intent on the time-table, “but 
Cordenham is a little place somewhere south of 






THE SINISTER MARK 


250 

Chicago—and it’s destined to be famous one of these 
days if what Tve learned this morning turns out to 

be true. You can take it from me- Oh—leave 

Chicago,” he was reading now, “leave Chicago one- 
twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. That 
can’t be right—nearly three hours—yes, it is. Leave 
Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four- 
seventeen. Gee! Must be a rotten little road. 
. . . I say, O’Malley, how would you rather go 

to Chicago?” 

“In a coffin,” replied the confirmed and prejudiced 
New Yorker, promptly. 

Peter chuckled. “No, but I mean it, O’Malley. 
Which is the best train?” 

“The one that takes longest to go and the one 
that’s quickest coming back,” answered O’Malley, 
and Peter was forced to decide his route from his 
own, more limited experience. 

He chose a train which left the Pennsylvania Sta¬ 
tion at eleven o’clock, and reached Chicago at nine 
on the following morning. This would give him 
ample leeway, in case the Western train was late, to 
make the connection for Cordenham. After his last 
night’s experience he wished to run no risk. 

When he had made his decision, he threw the time¬ 
tables down on the desk and turned to his partner. 

“I only have a little time, O’Malley,” he said, “but 
I want to put you wise to something I turned up last 
night. It was a peach of a piece of luck, and ex¬ 
plains a lot, as you’ll see for yourself.” 





A HIGH WALL 


251 

And he proceeded rapidly to relate the story of 
his having surprised Angelo in Miss Blake’s apart¬ 
ment. 

“I put the screws on him after I’d caught him,” 
Peter said. “You may be sure of that, O’Malley. 
I made him believe that I thought he’d murdered one 
or both of the sisters.” 

“But you couldn’t have thought that, Peter,” 
interrupted O’Malley, quickly. 

“No, of course not,” answered Peter, readily. “I 
sized the situation up pretty well, from the minute 
he told me there was silver in the bundle he was carry¬ 
ing. But I wanted to get the dope straight, and the 
best way, of course, was to scare him into it, poor 
devil.” Then he went on to tell of Angelo’s con¬ 
fession. “I let him off easy,” he said, in conclusion, 
“what else could I do, O’Malley? If either of us 
had a wife who was desperately ill, and we needed the 
money for her—well, all I said to him was, ‘It’s a poor 
bet, Angelo. Nobody gets away with it for long. 
Promise me you’ll never try it on again.’ And he 
promised by all the saints in the calendar. 

And that was that.” 

O’Malley was silent for a moment when Peter had 
finished. Then he said: 

“So—our murder theory’s knocked into a cocked 
hat. At least it seems that way to me, Pete. 
Doesn’t it to you?” 

“Well,” said Peter, eyeing his partner medita¬ 
tively, “you mustn’t forget that the only person seen 


THE SINISTER MARK 


252 

to leave the apartment took with her a big trunk. 
That the large sum at the bank could be drawn out by 
Anne as well as by Mary—that, apparently, only 
Anne’s clothes are gone—oh—and all the rest of it. 
We’ve only solved the one problem, that is, as to why 
there was blood in several places in the apartment 
and why the rooms were all upset.” 

“Do you believe Angelo’s story, Pete?” asked 
O’Malley, earnestly. 

“I do.” The answer was sharp and to the point. 
“I think even an old hand like you, O'Malley, 
would have been convinced. I think you may 
take it for granted that the only blood spilled was 
Angelo’s. . . . Now, where do you go from 

there?” 

“Are you kidding me, Pete?” asked O’Malley, 
with a little twinkle in his sharp old eyes. “Are 
you trying to draw me so as to get the laugh on the 
old man? Have you got something new, boy?” 
eagerly. “You have, I can see it in your eye! 
What is it, Pete? What-” 

“Oh, lord!” After a hasty glance at his watch 
Peter had jumped to his feet. “ I’ve got to clear out 
this minute, O’Malley,” he said. “I’ve just time to 
get my ticket and catch the train. Send up a 
prayer that I’ll get a night’s rest on the train, if you 
think you have any pull up above, for I need it, old 
top. Yes, I was kidding you.” He laid his hand 
on the old man’s broad shoulder. “I’ve got some¬ 
thing, and I think it’s good, but I can’t tell you till 





A HIGH WALL 


253 

I’m sure. It may be a pipe dream, after all. And, 
anyway, I can’t stop now. Good-bye, old scout. 
Wish me luck.” 

“Good-bye and good luck, Pete,” said O’Malley, 
gravely, as their hands met. “I’ll be thinking about 
you, boy. Good-bye.” 

He turned back when Peter, in his tumultuous exit, 
slammed the door. 

“Youth,” he said, shaking his gray head. “Youth 
and courage—and brains—brains!” 

A day and a night and almost another day passed 
uneventfully for Captain O’Malley. For Peter the 
time was marked only by the click and rumble of 
swiftly moving wheels, the roaring and shrieking of 
the train; a few hours’ respite in Chicago, and then on 
again, more slowly and with lessened comfort, in the 
dingy, red plush-covered seat of a day coach, count¬ 
ing the little stations as they passed—and, at last— 
Cordenham. 

At the tiny way-station he alighted from the train 
and proceeded to make his inquiries. 

“Oh, yes. You can find it easy enough,” said the 
old expressman in answer to Peter’s question, eyeing 
him a trifle curiously, Peter thought. “It’s about 
half a mile straight down the road. You’ll know it 
by the high wall all ’round the place. The old May- 
hew place, we calls it. It was a crank of an English¬ 
man that built it. He died a spell ago. But you’ll 
know it by the stone wall. You can’t miss it. It’s 


THE SINISTER MARK 


2 54 

only about half a mile, and ask for the Mayhew 
place. Anybody can tell you/' 

With these explicit directions Peter set off down 
the flat and lonely road. The day had been hot and 
breathless, but now, in the early evening, a cooling 
breeze was springing up, rippling the fields of stand¬ 
ing grain and rustling in the trees along the dusty 
road. Peter bared his head to the refreshing air, 
and strode forward with swift and determined steps. 

He passed few houses along the way, and fewer 
people. One of these, a bright-looking boy, in torn 
overalls, he stopped and asked if he was on the right 
road to the Mayhew place. 

The answer was a nod and a pointing finger, and 
the boy passed on, kicking up the soft dust with his 
bare feet. 

Just after this Peter crossed a wooden bridge over 
a thread of water running between wide, eroded 
banks, and came to a small, dark wood. The wood 
passed, he came suddenly upon a long stretch of high 
stone wall, incongruous in such a setting, and be¬ 
hind the wall, at some little distance, he could see the 
top of an old stone house which appeared more in¬ 
congruous still, for it was on the lines of an old Eng¬ 
lish castle, with high, crenelated walls. On the top 
of the roof, most incongruous of all, was a modern 
super-structure, largely of glass, and, as Peter looked, 
a strange, brilliant light of a queer bluish purple 
flared out through the windows—died down—flared 
once again—and was gone. 


A HIGH WALL 


255 

Peter muttered something to himself, and went on 
along the wall, stopping quietly on the closely trim¬ 
med grass which lay between it and the road. 
Soon he came to a closed gate, a high gate of 
heavy wrought-iron work. He paused here only 
long enough to look down a well-kept driveway 
shaded with dark trees and thickly planted with 
shrubbery. There was not a soul in sight. Then 
he continued on about five hundred feet to the visible 
end of the wall. 

He had hoped that the wall had simply been built 
to ensure privacy from the road, as is the case in so 
many American homes, but he found, to his disap¬ 
pointment, that the wall continued at right angles, 
probably enclosing the entire estate. 

Peter was rather at a loss how to proceed. He had 
wished, if possible, to make sure of one point before 
coming out into the open, and the height of the wall 
bade fair to defeat even the possibility of accomplish¬ 
ing his purpose. 

He stood for a moment at the corner thinking how 
best to proceed. As he glanced about him, he noticed 
a rough though well-worn path leading away from 
the road and, following the turn of the wall, through 
a wood of tall trees and thick underbrush. 

“I’ll take a chance,” thought Peter, and quietly 
entered the path. 

He had walked far enough to be certain, though he 
could not see it, that he had passed the house, when 
suddenly he came to a stop. On the other side of 


THE SINISTER MARK 


256 

the wall he could hear voices. Two women’s voices 
he made them out to be, though he could not hear 
the words. It was the first sign of life he had found 
around the odd, lonely place. 

‘‘I will have a look in,” he thought, determinedly, 
and glancing swiftly about, he saw a tree tall enough 
and near enough to the wall for his purpose. 

Quick and light as a panther, he was up among the 
leafy branches in a second. He had chosen wellj 
for below him, clear to view, were the lawns and gar¬ 
den of the queer old house. 

Just beneath, to the left of the tree he had chosen, 
were the two women whose voices he had heard. 
One was dressed in the crisp white of a nurse. The 
other Peter could not see well, for she was in a wheel 
chair, the back of which was toward the wall. He 
could hear the voices a little more distinctly now, 
though the words were still indistinguishable. The 
nurse’s voice had the usual cheerful professional 
ring, the other spoke in a high, thin, “society” 
drawl. Both voices dimmed as the women moved 
slowly away across the lawn. 

“Nothing doing,” thought Peter to himself, and im¬ 
mediately losing interest in the couple who had been 
so near him his quick eyes roamed farther afield. 

On the lawns and about the garden, gay with 
flowers, several other figures moved. They were 
mostly in couples, a nurse, and with her another 
woman, some walking about and some being wheeled 
in chairs. 






A HIGH WALL 


257 

At some distance from the rest one woman walked 
alone, a slender figure dressed in black. She walked 
swiftly, with long, even, purposeful steps. She was 
opposite the house and moving away from Peter when 
he first saw her. The instant he caught sight of her 
there was no one else in all the grounds for Peter. 
His eyes followed her every movement. She reached 
the shrubbery which closed the view on the opposite 
side of the lawn. Peter held his breath. Would she 
enter the shrubbery and disappear from sight? No. 
She had turned, and was coming slowly toward him. 

When the dark figure again reached the house, 
Peter had another bad moment, but, without pause, 
like one who paces a deck for exercise, the woman 
rapidly advanced. Nearer and nearer she came. 
Now she skirted the end of a flower bed and was on 
the lawn just beneath Peter’s tree. 

In his excitement, Peter’s foot slipped a little, and 
a small, dead branch broke with a sharp snap. The 
woman looked up—and Peter knew—knew without 
shadow of doubt, that he was looking into the face of 
the woman he had so long and so earnestly sought— 
the woman who called herself—Anne Blake. 



CHAPTER XXVI 
The Woman Shultze 

npHE hours which followed Peter’s abrupt and 
unexpected departure from Fennimore Park 
passed long and heavily for Donald Morris. He 
waited for nearly twenty-four hours, hoping to get a 
wire, and all the while, though he was physically 
better for the change, his mind chafed at his distance 
from the scene of action. 

Soon after Peter had gone Morris had motored up 
the hill to Mrs. Rutherford’s cottage, only to be told 
that she was suffering from a bad headache and had 
gone to bed. In the morning he had called her up 
on the telephone, to inquire as to her health, and to 
ask if he might see her, but found, to his great sur¬ 
prise, that she had gone to town on the morning 
train. 

Disappointed and anxious, he felt that he could 
stand it no longer. The momentary collapse, of 
which his sister had taken advantage to get him away 
from town for a time, was practically over. He felt 
considerably better, but the uncertainty and inaction, 
combined with Peter’s odd behaviour and Mrs. 
Rutherford’s sudden return to New York, made him 
feel that he must follow them. He had no means 

258 







THE WOMAN SHULTZE 259 

of knowing that Clancy was no longer there. He 
hoped to see him not later than that evening, for 
he had determined to take the noon train from 
Tollenville. 

“Til be just as comfortable at home as I am here, 
Helena,” he said, when she remonstrated with him. 
“I’m taking Hobbs back with me and he’ll look out 
for me as well as you could. Don’t worry, dear, 
I’ll be much better off at home.” 

He kissed her, gently, and went out to the car 
which was already waiting to take him to the 
train. 

On the evening of the day, then, when Peter ar¬ 
rived at Cordenham, but at a somewhat later hour, 
Donald Morris reached New York. Late as it was, 
his first action on arriving was to call Peter’s office 
on the telephone, and he was lucky enough to find 
O’Malley still there. 

The old man told him briefly of Peter’s sudden de¬ 
parture from the city, and added: 

“He was in a devil of a rush, and I don’t, myself, 
know what he’s up to, Mr. Morris. But he did give 
me some information which I think would interest 
you. I’ve got to go out just now, but I’ll be back 
here by eight o’clock. Lot of work I must make up— 
and if you could find it convenient to come over after 
dinner—or I’ll come to your house-” 

“No, no. I’ll come to you,” said Morris, hastily. 
“I can, perfectly well, and I think I’d rather be there 
than anywhere else. Clancy probably thinks I’m 



26 o 


THE SINISTER MARK 


still at Fennimore Park, and you’ll be likely to get 
any news there is before I would. I’ll come over a 

little after eight. It’s good of you to take the 

• >> 
time- 

“Not at all, not at all,” said O’Malley, cordially. 
“Wish I had some real good news for you—not that 
this isn’t good, as far as it goes-” 

Donald therefore made ready to leave his sister’s 
house in Gramercy Park a little before eight that 
evening. Somewhat encouraged by O’Malley’s 
cheerful tone, and the fact that news, good news as 
far as it went, awaited him, he had dined with more 
appetite than he had known for several days. As 
the hands of the tall clock in the hall marked the hour 
of seven-forty-five, having noted from his window 
that the taxi he had summoned to take him to 
O’Malley’s office was already drawn up at the curb, 
he descended the stairs from his room, expecting to 
leave the house at once. 

He had seen the cabman run up the steps, and after 
a short colloquy with someone at the door, return to 
his cab. He was surprised, therefore, as he passed 
his sister’s apartments on the second floor, to hear 
the sound of voices in the hall below Since he had 
dismissed his valet for the night, he knew that, be¬ 
sides himself, there was no one in the house except 
an old coloured woman who had been in the family 
for two generations, and who always took charge 
of the house when the family were away for the 
summer. 




THE WOMAN SHULTZE 


261 

Fearing that it might be a casual friend who would 
detain him, Donald waited, out of sight, in the upper 
hall, until he could determine who the unexpected 
caller might be. As he paused to listen, he heard 
Susan’s soft old voice: 

“ I don’ think you can see Mistah Morris to-night,” 
it said. “He jus’ goin’ out.” 

“ But I must see him.” It was a woman’s voice, 
sharp, thin, and nasal. “He’ll want to see me when 
he knows who I come from. You tell him, and tell 
him quick, that there’s a lady here waiting to see him 
that can tell him something he wants, most particu¬ 
lar, to know’. Tell him that I seen the piece in the 
paper Monday and that I know where the lady is. 
You tell him that, and-” 

“It’s all right, Susan,” cried Donald, running 
swiftly down the stairs. “I’ll see her. Just go out 
and tell the cabman to wait, please.” As Susan 
quietly disappeared, he spoke quickly, breathlessly, 
to the other woman. “Come in here,” he said, lead¬ 
ing the way into a small, formal reception room at 
the right of the hall, and switching on the lights as he 
entered. 

The woman followed obediently. She was a large, 
stout, middle-aged person, dressed elaborately in a 
cheap imitation of the latest mode. There were 
many gaudy rings on her ungloved hands, and in 
her ears were earrings of such size and weight as to 
make one fear for her equilibrium should she lose one 
of them. Her face, which must once have been hand- 



262 


THE SINISTER MARK 


some in a common way, was slack-skinned and puffy, 
and covered heavily with powder and rouge. As she 
walked, her fluttering, scanty garments exhaled a 
heavy perfume. 

Donald was too much excited to be seriously 
affected by her unprepossessing appearance. 

“Please sit down/’ he said, quickly, “and tell me 
what you have to say.” 

She sank luxuriously into a soft-cushioned chair, 
and with a keen, observant eye took in her surround¬ 
ings and the appearance of the man who remained 
standing before her. 

“You’re Mr. Morris—Mr. Donald Morris?” she 
asked, looking sharply up at him. “Yes. Well, then, 
I’ll tell you—and if there’s anything in it-” 

“There’ll be something in it for you,” Donald 
hastily assured her, “if you can give me the informa¬ 
tion I’m looking for.” 

“How much?” asked the woman, tersely. Her 
eyes were little points of avaricious light. 

Donald recoiled a little, and hesitated. The 
woman, keenly observant, hastened to retrieve her 
mistake. 

“Not that I care for myself,” she said, softening 
her nasal voice. “It’s the poor thing I’m thinking 
of. She needs care and attention that I can’t afford 
to give her, but if some of her friends would come 
across I could do for her as any one would wish to, 
the poor, beautiful young thing.” 

“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Donald. 












THE WOMAN SHULTZE 263 

rendered somewhat cautious, in spite of his keen 
desire to hear more. 

“Why, you know, of course, Mr. Morris. Who 
would I be speaking of to you like this? It’s Miss 
Mary Blake I’m talking about, though I wasn’t sure, 
myself, at first, and never would have known at all, 
if it hadn’t been for that piece in the paper.” 

“Mary! Miss Blake?” cried Donald, starting 
forward. “Do you mean to tell me you really know 
where she is?” 

“I certainly do, Mr. Morris,” said the woman, 
confidently. “Why, she’s been in my house for 
about a month now. She come the first of June, or 
a day or two before.” 

“Mary!” muttered Donald to himself. “Here, 
all this time we’ve been looking—hunting the coun¬ 
try over-” Aloud he said, eagerly: “And she’s 

there now?” 

“She is that, Mr. Morris. I come straight from 
her.” 

“Did she send you to me?” The question was 
anxious, but filled with wondering hope. 

“Well,” said the woman, slightly evasive, “you 
can’t exactly say she sent me. Not exactly. But 
she’ll be all right when she sees you—I’m sure of 
that.” 

“All right?” asked Donald, quickly. “What do 
you mean by ‘all right’? Is she ill? Is anything the 
matter-” 

“Now, now, don’t get excited, Mr. Morris,” she 




THE SINISTER MARK 


264 

interrupted, soothingly. “She's all right. She's 
well and comfortable. Just a little queer, maybe, but 
nothing to speak of, and when she sees you-' 

“But I don’t understand-’’ Morris began, 

anxiously. 

“No, probably you don’t, and I’d better tell you 
the whole story,” said the woman, easily. “I'd 
better spill the whole dope, and then you'll see just 
how the land lays.” 

Donald sank into a chair near by and the woman, 
leaning forward, spoke confidentially: 

“My name’s Shultze, Mrs. Gertrude Shultze, 
though all my friends call me ‘Trudie’,” she said, in 
what she evidently considered a society manner. “I 
keep a very classy boarding house for ladies and 

gentlemen at 111 West Forty-Street. Well, that’s 

me. Now, about the first of June, a young lady 
comes to my house, a very beautiful young lady, I 
think you’ll agree, Mr. Morris. She's very quiet, 
respectable, and ladylike”—Donald shuddered— 
“keeps herself to herself, and at first she paid right 
along, as a real lady should. I thought, from the 
start-off, that her manner was a bit strange, but I 
didn't really begin to notice nothing till just a week 
or so ago. I hadn’t seen much of her, to tell you 
the truth, Mr. Morris, for the simple reason that she 
paid to have her meals sent up until a short time ago, 
and after that, she only took the room, and had her 
meals out, I suppose, though I never seen her go out 
that I can remember, but, of course, I’m that busy 













THE WOMAN SHULTZE 265 

what with all the gentlemen taking up my time and 
that-” 

Donald was frowning heavily. His interruption 
was rather brusque: 

“What name did this young lady give when she 
came to your house, Mrs.—Mrs. Shultze?” 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? She gave the name of 
Curwood.” 

Donald caught his breath. “ Curwood ? ” he asked, 
sharply, and, remembering the name Clancy had dis¬ 
covered at Hobart Falls, he repeated it again— 
“Curwood.” 

“Of course I’m aware now that it wasn’t her real 
name,” the woman went on, knowingly. “As soon 
as I seen her photo in the paper, it set me thinking. 
I couldn’t get it out of me head, and the more I 
thought, the surer I was. But this child don’t go off 
half-cocked, believe me! So, thinks I to myself, I 
know a place where they sells pictures of actors and 
actresses, and I slipped over to Broadway this very 
afternoon, and I buys three of Mary Blake, all differ¬ 
ent views. I studies ’em, you may be sure, and when 
I goes up to see if she can come across with the bit of 
money she’s owing me, I give her the once over—and 
there ain’t no doubt left in my mind. There couldn’t 
be. It’s Miss Mary Blake, all right, all right”— 
confidently. “You can put all your money on that 
horse, Mr. Morris.” 

Donald Morris shut his teeth together. He could 
not bear to think what this month had been to Mary, 



266 


THE SINISTER MARK 


shut up in the sort of house this woman would have. 
Why had she hidden there ? What reason could there 
have been? As to her identity, he had no doubt. 
The woman, Shultze, was sharp and keen enough— 
and there was the name—Curwood. It was an 
unusual name, and Clancy was sure that his infor¬ 
mation was correct. No. There could be no doubt. 

It was horrible to his sensitive nature to be obliged 
to make use of this woman, but he saw no other way. 
Something she had said- 

“I think you told me you noticed something 
strange in the lady’s manner, Mrs. Shultze.” His 
voice was abrupt though he strove to speak in his 
usual tone. “Just what did you mean by that?” 

“Why,” the woman hesitated slightly, though 
Donald was under the impression that she was not 
trying to be evasive, “I don’t quite know how to 
put it, Mr. Morris, but between friends, it seemed to 
me that Miss Blake—or Miss Curwood, as she calls 
herself—has kind of—lost her memory.” 

“ Just how do you mean?” asked Donald, groaning 
inwardly. If the woman was right, if Mary’s mind 
were affected- 

“She doesn’t even seem to remember who I am,” 
answered Mrs. Shultze, quickly. “And when I 
asked who her friends were, and if some of ’em 
mightn’t stake her for awhile, she looked at me, kind 
of blank-like, and she says, putting her hand to her 
head, like this, ‘Friends—friends? I don’t believe 
I have a friend in the world.’ And you know, Mr. 












THE WOMAN SHULTZE 


267 

Morris, that’s all nonsense. Of course a young lady 
like her’s bound to have all the friends she wants. 
And then, when I found out who she was, why, ’twas 
only natural I should come to the gentleman the 
paper mentioned, thinking that any one that knew 
the poor thing would be glad to help her. But, if 
you don’t see your way to that,” her raised eyebrows 
and lifted chin were slightly aggressive, “why, the 
paper give the name of her manager, Mr. Frederick 
Jones, and I can go to him. I don’t believe he’s no 
tightwad, and I guess-” 

Donald Morris leaped to his feet. His subsequent 
actions were almost automatic, so poignant were his 
emotions. 

“Wait one moment, Mrs. Shultze,” he said, hur¬ 
riedly. “I’ll go with you at once. Just wait one 
moment.” 

He dashed through the hall and into a big library 
at the back of the house. Seating himself at a tele¬ 
phone desk, he called O’Malley. When the con¬ 
nection was made: 

“I can’t come to your office to-night, Captain 
O’Malley.” He spoke rapidly, and the old man at 
the other end of the wire caught the excitement in 
his tone. 

“Why, what’s up, Mr. Morris?” he asked, quickly. 

“I know where Miss Blake is, O’Malley,” Donald 
cried. “She’s staying with a woman who’s here in 
the house now. I’m going to her at once. I-” 

“Don’t you want me to go with you, Mr. Morris? 




268 


THE SINISTER MARK 


I can as well as not, and I’ll keep in the background 
if you say so. Don’t you think it would be advis¬ 
able? Where is she?” 

“The address is hi West Forty-Street. . . 

O’Malley whistled under his breath, but Donald did 
not hear him. “I don’t quite know-” He hesi¬ 

tated. 

“Pick me up at the northwest corner of Broadway 
and Thirty-ninth Street,” said O’Malley, crisply. 
“I’ll be there before you are and it won’t cause any 
delay. If you don’t need me, I’ll just stay in the 
cab.” 

“All right, O’Malley. I think I’ll be glad to have 
you along,” Donald agreed, and with a caution born 
of his estimate of Mrs. Gertrude Shultze, he added, 
swiftly, “Don’t mention your—your profession be¬ 
fore the person you’ll find in the cab with me. I’ll 
say you’re a friend of Miss Blake’s.” 

“I’m on,” said O’Malley, briefly, and Morris hung 
up the receiver. 

He went swiftly back to the reception room. 

“I’m ready, Mrs. Shultze,” he said. 

The woman gave him a long, calculating glance 
and followed to the waiting cab. 




CHAPTER XXVII 


hi West Forty- Street 

/^ERTRUDE SHULTZE listened attentively 
while Donald instructed the cabman to go to 

number 111 West Forty-Street, but to stop on the 

way and pick up another passenger on the northwest 
corner of Thirty-ninth Street. She looked at him 
shrewdly from the corner of her eye as the cab started 
forward, and after a moment she said: 

“Who’s your friend, Mr. Morris? I shouldn’t 
think Miss Blake would be any too crazy to have a 
crowd-” 

“It’s a friend of Miss Blake’s,” said Morris, 
shortly. “Someone who is almost as interested in 
finding her as I am.” 

“Oh,” said the woman, and remained silent for 
several minutes, much to Donald’s relief. 

She started talking again (it was obvious that she 
could not be silent for long), but she said nothing of 
any consequence to Donald. Her chatter annoyed 
him because it gave him no time to think, and he was 
relieved when he saw O’Malley’s bulky old figure 
standing at the appointed place. 

O’Malley jumped in, with surprising agility for one 
of his age and figure, almost before the cab came to 

269 






THE SINISTER MARK 


270 

a standstill, and after being introduced to Mrs. 
Shultze, he bore the brunt of the conversation. Even 
then, Donald had little opportunity for concen¬ 
trated thought for his attention was distracted by 
the clever way in which the old man drew the woman 
out, making an excellent impression by the interest 
he showed in her personal concerns. The adaptable 
old fellow had no difficulty, apparently, in meeting 
her on her own ground, and in the few minutes which 
elapsed before the cab stopped in front of her house 
he had gained such headway that she made no diffi¬ 
culty whatever about his accompanying Mr. Morris. 

With her own latch-key she opened the door of the 
big, somewhat shabby house, and requested the 
gentlemen to follow her upstairs. 

Donald hesitated to go up unannounced, but she 
imperatively overruled his objections. 

“Your best bet is to go in sudden, Mr. Morris,” 
she said. “It may be a shock, but if you ask me, I 
think a shock is just what the poor thing needs.” 

O’Malley cast a sharp, questioning look from one 
to the other, and Mrs. Shultze told him at once of 
Miss Blake’s loss of memory. When he under¬ 
stood : 

“I think she’s right, Mr. Morris,” he said. “I’ve 
had some experience—I mean I’ve seen a case of this 
sort, and it was just the shock of seeing someone 
well known in the past that brought the memory 
back. It’s worth trying.” 

Donald agreed to that, and all three, Mrs. Shultze 


Ill WEST FORTY-STREET 271 

in the lead, went up the heavily carpeted, dusty 
stairs. When they reached the top floor, she pointed 
to a door and placing her finger on her lips, knocked 
softly. 

“Who's there?” 

Donald started forward at the sound of the voice 
within the room. O’Malley put his hand on Don¬ 
ald’s arm. 

“Wait,” he said, in a low whisper. 

“It’s only me, dearie,” said Mrs. Shultze in hon¬ 
eyed accents. She tried the door, and finding it 
locked, added more sweetly still, “Won’t you let me 
in? 

There was no answer except the sound of a key 
turning in a lock. Mrs. Shultze cast a warning 
glance at the two men, opened the door and stepped 
quickly inside, leaving it ajar. 

“How are you to-night, dearie?” 

“I’m very well, I think. I’m not sure. What is 
it you want? You’ve been here before about some¬ 
thing, but what is it, I can’t remember.” 

At the first words Donald started again, convul¬ 
sively. He stepped close to the door and listened 
intently to that voice, that beloved voice, now so un¬ 
certain, so strangely altered, yet the same—the same. 

“Oh, forget it, dearie,” Mrs. Shultze had responded 
at once, with exaggerated cheerfulness. “We won’t 
talk about that now. I’ve brought a friend to see 
you, sweetie. That’s the way little Trudie looks out 
for them she takes a fancy to. I’ve brought an old 




272 

friend- 




THE SINISTER MARK 

There was a low murmur and t 


woman, evidently replying to it, said: “You 1 
all right, dearie. He won’t mind.” Donald knew 
that she had turned toward the door, for her voice 
was louder as she added, “Come in, Mr. Morris.” 

“I’ll stay here,” whispered O’Malley in Donald’s 
ear. “Leave the door open. I’ll keep out of sight.” 

Scarcely hearing, with heart beating wildly, 
Donald pushed open the door. 

“Mary,” he cried, chokingly. “Mary! At last!” 

She was seated on the other side of a small table, 
leaning slightly forward, her cheek resting on her 
right hand, in a position poignantly familiar; but the 
exquisite face—oh, how changed and ravaged it was! 
Only the great, gold-gray eyes burned with the old 
fire. 

Donald cried out again, “Mary!” and threw him¬ 
self on his knees beside her. Mrs. Shultze, keeping 
herself well in the background, watched with calcu¬ 
lating eyes. 

O’Malley, in the hall, saw the woman at the table 
draw back, turning sidewise in her chair. 

“I—I don’t understand-” The voice was 

sweet, low, and troubled, “Ought I to know you? I 

can’t think-” She passed her hand across her 

forehead, pushing back the lovely curves of soft dark 
hair. 

“Oh, Mary,” there was heart-break in the tone, 
“don’t you remember? It’s Donald. Donald. You 
must-” 














Ill WEST FORTY-STREET 273 

y I can’t remember,” she said, gently drawing her 
rather worn silk negligee closer about her. “There 
was someone—someone once, who spoke to me like 
that. . . . But it was long ago—long ago, I 

think.” She looked at the upturned face steadily, 
trying to thread her way back through the darkness 
of her mind. “Who was it? There have been so 
many—so many faces. . . . They come and go 

—in dreams—but they have no names. 

They’re like scenes in a play. The curtain comes 

down . . . and it’s all dark—all dark-” 

The beautiful voice trailed off into silence, and again 
she dropped her cheek on her hand. 

“But, Mary, Mary-” Donald strove, in 

agony, to regain her attention by the reiteration of 
her name. 

She roused herself a little, and looked at him 
again. 

“Why do you call me that?” she asked, confusedly. 
“My name is Rosamond, Rosamond Curwood.” 

“I know, dear,” he replied, gently. “But you 
were called Mary on the stage. Try to remember. 
Mary Blake. That was the name you used. Can’t 
you- 

She shook her head, slowly, wearily. 

“Don’t—don’t confuse me,” she said. “I can re¬ 
member that my name is Rosamond Curwood. It’s 
all I can remember. Don’t take that away from 
me. 

But Donald could not give up. Again and again 








THE SINISTER MARK 


274 

he tried to call back to her remembrance something 
out of the past. But she only shook her head, 
blankly, becoming more and more troubled and un¬ 
certain, until at last he dared not go on. With a 
hopeless gesture he rose to his feet, and before he had 
reached the door, she had relapsed into the old 
position, her eyes staring absently before her. 

In passing, Donald made a sign to Mrs. Shultze, 
and together they left the room, softly closing 
the door upon the sad and apparently hopeless 
figure. 

Without a word, O’Malley put his kind old hand 
under Morris’s arm, and realizing the young man’s 
need of physical as well as moral support, he led him 
quickly down the stairs, Mrs. Shultze following close 
behind. 

As soon as they reached the ground floor O’Malley 
said: 

“There’s just one thing to be done, Mr. Morris, 
and the quicker, the better. What we want is a 
doctor—an alienist”—he felt Donald wince—“I 
know it’s hard, but it’s got to be faced. And you 
know there’s always hope in a case of this kind. 
Most of ’em recover sooner or later, I think. But we 
want a specialist, the best in town, and I would 
suggest-” 

“Stevens,” Donald interrupted, with eagerness. 
“I’d rather have John Stevens than any one else.” 

“The very man I was thinking of,” agreed O’Mal¬ 
ley. “There’s nobody like him in the country.” 




Ill WEST FORTY- STREET 275 

“And he’s a personal friend of mine, too,” said 
Donald. “There’s hardly anything we wouldn’t do 
for each other, and-” 

“Got a telephone here?” O’Malley turned sharply 
to Mrs. Shultze, who had been silently listening. 

“Oh, yes, sir. Just at the back of the hall.” She 
pointed, and O’Malley started toward the instru¬ 
ment which could be dimly seen in the shadow of the 
stair. 

Donald checked him. “It would be better for 
me. It’s late, but he’ll come for me,” he said, and 
went quickly to the telephone. 

While he was talking, Mrs. Shultze came up close to 
O’Malley, and spoke in a soft, wheedling voice. 

“You won’t let Mr. Morris forget that it was me 
that found Miss Blake for him, will you?” she said. 
“A gentleman like him would be sure to be grateful, 
I should think. And there’s the matter of a week’s 
rent, too. Of course, there’s no hurry about it, now 
I know who her friends are, but you’ll see he doesn’t 
forget, like an old dear, won’t you? I’d hate to be 
speaking to him myself, when the poor young man’s 
in such trouble and all.” 

“You needn’t worry, Mrs. Shultze,” said O’Malley, 
gruffly. “You’ll be paid and paid well, if you’re 
good to the poor young thing upstairs.” 

“Oh, you can be sure of that, sir,” she said, beam¬ 
ing at him. “I’ll treat her’s if she was my own dau— 
sister, I mean. Yes, sir. Anything that Trudie 
Shultze can do for her is the same as done. I’ll-” 





276 THE SINISTER MARK 

“Stevens is coming right down. He’ll be here in a 
few minutes,” said Donald, advancing quickly from 
the other end of the hall. 

“Won’t you gentlemen come into my parlour and 
wait there?” said Mrs. Shultze, hospitably. “It’s 
right here handy, on the ground floor.” 

Donald shook his head and O’Malley declined 
politely. 

“We’ll be all right here,” he said, motioning to a 
plush-covered settle which stood against the wall. 
“And we won’t keep you any longer, Mrs. Shultze.” 

He said this pointedly, and the woman, realizing 
that she had no further excuse for lingering, only said 
sweetly, “If you need me, I’ll be right on the job”; 
and went down the hall, disappearing through a door 
at the back. 

They were forced to recall her, however, when the 
doctor came. 

“Better have some woman, Don. I hadn’t time 
to get hold of a nurse,” he said. “Better have the 
woman of the house, especially since the patient is 
used to seeing her.” 

So it was that Mrs. Shultze, as well as Donald and 
O’Malley, accompanied the doctor to the top floor. 
The woman knocked softly and went in alone. 
Presently she came back to the door, and beckoned 
to Doctor Stevens. Morris and O’Malley remained 
in the hall. The door was partly open, and they 
could hear the doctor’s quiet, assured voice and an 
occasional low reply. In a little while they heard 








Ill WEST FORTY - STREET 277 

him speak quickly to Mrs. Shultze, and both of them 
came into the hall. The doctor was frowning, 
angrily. 

“When did she have something to eat?” he 
asked, sharply, jerking his head in the direction of 
the room they had just left. “Speak up, woman. 
When did she eat last?” 

“I—I don't know.” Mrs. Shultze faltered under 
the doctor’s steady glare. “She isn’t boarding here 
any longer. She just has the room, and she owes me 

for that for more’n a week. I never thought-” 

“I guess that’s the truth, anyway,” said Doctor 
Stevens, angrily. “I don’t believe you ever did be¬ 
fore, but for God’s sake, think now and think quick. 
Have you any bouillon—any milk in the house? 
The child’s starving. I don’t believe she’s had a 
mouthful for days. We’ll have to see about the other 
trouble later. She must have food now, and quickly. 
Don’t stand there, woman. Get down to your 
kitchen as fast as the Lord’ll let you, and bring me 

milk, some raw eggs, a little sherry or brandy-” 

“My God!” groaned Trudie Shultze. “There ain’t 
been a drop of sherry or brandy in the house for two 

months—I got some gin-” 

“Get the other things quick,” said O’Malley. 

“Gin won’t do as well as-” With a funny little 

look he slipped his hand into a rear pocket. “It’s 
the best, Doctor.” The hand came out, holding a 
small flask. “I can vouch for it. The best French 
brandy in New York.” 







THE SINISTER MARK 


278 

“Good!” said the doctor, with a little gleam in the 
eye he turned on O’Malley. “Now, Don, you go to 

the nearest restaurant and get-” He reeled off 

a list of light and delicate but nourishing edibles. 
“You won’t need to hurry. She’ll do with the egg¬ 
nog for an hour at least. So get ’em good, and take 
your time.” 

“All right,” said Donald, grateful for the oppor¬ 
tunity for action. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can 
make it. But, John-” 

“Yes?” 

“ Can’t we take her out of this beastly hole ? Now, 
at once! I can’t bear to think of her with that 
hyena of a woman—who left her to starve—to 
starve! God! When I think of it-” 

“The woman will treat her well if she’s paid,” 
said O’Malley. “I can vouch for that, at least.” 

“Then pay her! For God’s sake, pay her!” cried 
Donald, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket and 
thrusting them into O’Malley’s hands. 

“Better leave her here, in any case, for to-night, 
Don,” advised Doctor Stevens, quietly. “I can get 
her into my sanitarium to-morrow, if you’d like that.” 
Donald nodded, eagerly. “And I’ll get a nurse for 
her here, right away, but I think you’d better sweeten 
up this woman-” 

“This’ll do it,” said O’Malley, peeling off a bill of 
large denomination, and handing the rest of the 
money back to Donald. “This will do for a starter, 
with the hope of benefits to follow.” 







Ill WEST FORTY- STREET 279 

“So go ahead, Don, and don’t worry about any¬ 
thing here,” said the doctor, comfortingly. “Pm 
not going to leave till I see things are right.” 

Donald, after a grateful look at John Stevens and 
O’Malley, and an anxious, longing glance at the 
closed door, ran rapidly down the stairs. 

When O’Malley reached his comfortable, old- 
fashioned bachelor quarters, late that night, there 
was an almost unacknowledged feeling of half- 
amused satisfaction in his mind. The situation was 
painful enough, to be sure, and he was full of sym¬ 
pathy for young Morris, but, in spite of all, there was 
a certain compensation in the fact that he had put 
one over on Pete. While he had not been exactly 
instrumental in finding Mary Blake, he had been on 
the job when she was found—and that was incon¬ 
testably comforting to his sporty old heart. He 
was, therefore, in a somewhat mixed frame of mind 
as he undressed, but above all other considerations 
one thought was uppermost: 

“I’ll have news for you, Pete, my lad, when you 
get back from your wild-goose chase,” he said to 
himself, as he stooped, ponderously, to untie his 
shoes. 

And just then the telephone, which was installed 
in the corner of his bedroom, rang out loudly in the 
midnight stillness. 

He muttered an impatient word as he kicked off a 
shoe. “If it’s the wrong number again, I’ll give that 



28 o 


THE SINISTER MARK 


operator the devil,” he thought, hastily crossing to 
the telephone. 

“Is this Captain James O’Malley?” asked the 
voice in the instrument, and at his gruff response it 
continued, “Telegram for you.” 

“All right,” said O’Malley. “Shoot.” 

“Got the goods-” 

“What!” cried O’Malley. “Repeat that, please.” 

“‘Got—the—goods’-” the voice reiterated, 

with bored distinctness. “‘Meet us, Penn. Station, 
Saturday, eleven-forty-five from Chicago. Say noth¬ 
ing yet to D. M.’ Signed ‘Pete.’ Got that?” 

“Penn. Station, eleven-forty-five from Chicago, 
Saturday,” repeated O’Malley, slowly. “Yes. I’ve 
got it. Thanks.” 

He hung up the receiver. “Saturday—that’s the 
day after to-morrow,” he considered, and sat down 
heavily on a chair. 

“Us, meet us -” 

“Now, what in hell has Pete turned up?” he went 
on, wonderingly, half aloud. “What—in—hell-” 






CHAPTER XXVIII 

Donald Morris Understands 

TT CHANCED that O’Malley had little difficulty in 
A following Peter’s instructions in regard to Donald 
Morris, for they had but a few minutes’ private con¬ 
versation together during the next day, and O’Mal¬ 
ley cleverly filled the time by reporting Peter’s 
discovery of the Italian, Angelo Russo, in Miss 
Blake’s apartment, and the subsequent confession, 
which practically explained the condition in which 
the apartment was found. 

Donald listened to the recital with little of the 
interest he would have felt two days before. His 
whole mind was occupied with the discovery they had 
made on the previous night, and his heart was wrung 
by the fact that, though Doctor Stevens had re¬ 
ported his patient to be physically much improved, 
she still insisted that she knew no other name than 
Rosamond Curwood, had no memory whatever of 
the past, and showed not the slightest sign of recog¬ 
nition when Donald approached her. 

As early in the morning as possible she was re¬ 
moved to Doctor Stevens’s private sanitarium. She 
accepted, quietly and unquestioningly, all the ar¬ 
rangements which were made for her comfort, and 

281 


282 


THE SINISTER MARK. 


appeared grateful for the consideration shown her, to 
a certain extent, but it was all evidently like a dream 
to her, and her manner remained absent and listless. 

All that day and the morning of the next Donald 
spent in the sanitarium, or at his home in Gramercy 
Park, within reach of the telephone, hoping, longing 
for news, but none came. 

At two o’clock on Saturday, as he was rising from 
an untasted luncheon, he was summoned to the tele¬ 
phone by John Stevens, who told him, with evident 
sympathy, that there had been no change whatever 
but that he was preparing to try an experiment that 
afternoon. 

“And I don’t want you, Don. Understand?” he 
said, firmly. “You can’t be of any assistance, and 
you’d much better stay where you are. I’ll ’phone 
you the instant I want you, but it won’t be until five 
o’clock, anyway. I promise to let you know then, or 
soon after. And, Don,” he concluded, with a queer 
note in his voice, “there is hope, boy. More than 
hope for you, I firmly believe. Be patient—and 
trust me.” 

In a whirlwind of anxiety and emotion Donald 
spent that afternoon, pacing back and forth, back 
and forth, the length of the great house. Listening 
for the telephone’s insistent ring, wondering, hoping, 
doubting, and hoping again. 

At last he felt that he could bear the period of en¬ 
forced inaction no longer. He would go up to the 
sanitarium, he decided, and spend that last, agoniz- 


DONALD MORRIS UNDERSTANDS 283 

ing half hour before five o’clock on the spot. There 
could be no harm, he argued, in waiting downstairs 
in the reception room. And if there was news— 
good news- 

He summoned a cab in haste, and drove rapidly to 
the sanitarium, which was on West Seventy-sixth 
Street. 

An extraordinarily neat maid answered his ring. 

“Doctor Stevens is in the house somewhere,” she 
told him, “with one of the patients upstairs. I don’t 
think he can be disturbed just now,” apologetically. 

“No, no,” said Donald, quickly. “I wouldn’t 
bother him on any account. I’ll just wait here, in 
the reception room, if I may, till he comes down.” 

Accordingly, he passed into the pleasantly fur¬ 
nished room, to the right of the hall—and waited— 
waited with every tautened nerve stretched, it 
seemed, to the breaking point. Though there were 
many books lying about, he could not read, he could 
not even remain seated for more than a moment at a 
time. Restlessly, he paced about, touching various 
things on the mantelpiece and table, not knowing 
why he picked them up, or noticing when he put 
them down. And all the while he was listening— 
listening for he knew not what. 

The big, broad, sunny house was very still. Once 
or twice a soft footfall on one of the floors above 
brought his heart into his mouth, but the sound 
passed away into silence, and no one went up or down 
the stairs. Again, for the twentieth time, he looked 



284 THE SINISTER MARK 

at his watch—five minutes of five—and John had 
promised- 

Suddenly he heard a slight commotion at the top 
of the house, and he turned swiftly toward the door, 
his clenched hands pressed tightly together. Mary 
was on that floor he knew, and he took a step forward. 
Now he could faintly hear voices, several voices, 
speaking very low, and once he imagined he heard a 
woman’s sob—then steps upon the stairs. 

He waited, breathless, keeping himself in hand with 
an iron grip, making no sound. 

Then, at the head of the lower flight of stairs, he 
heard Doctor Stevens’s voice. He was speaking to 
someone behind him, and there was a ring in his tone 
which caused Donald’s heart to leap up and his blood 
to pound in his temples. He took one step nearer the 
door, and at that instant Doctor Stevens saw him. 

“Don!” he exclaimed, with a curious note of 
anger—almost of alarm—in his voice. “Don, I told 
you not to come here! Not to come here on any 
account! I thought I made it plain-Oh!-” 

The expression on Donald’s face had altered from 
confusion and surprise to blinding, dazzling amaze¬ 
ment. He was not conscious that there was any one 
present save that one figure among several figures 
coming down the stairs. He cried out—he threw 
out his arms- 

“Mary!” he said, in a choking whisper. “You 
know me! You know me, at last!” And then, with 
a sudden cry, he recoiled in horror. 






DONALD MORRIS UNDERSTANDS 285 

The woman who, at the mention of his name, had 
turned toward him with a gasp of surprise, had, at 
the same instant, stepped full into the light. In her 
great clear eyes there were love, pain, fear—hope— 
and an agonizing tenderness. 

Swiftly, she put up her hand and covered the right 
side of her face. But he had seen—had seen, upon 
the smooth curve of chin and neck, a great red mark 
—like the print of a bloody hand. 

He stood aghast, amazed. All his senses reeled. 
“Anne!” he cried, incredulous, staring—“Anne!” 

“Oh, Donald,” she moaned, “I didn’t mean it to be 
like this, dear. I didn’t mean it to be like this!” 

“Mary’s voice,” he muttered, still staring at her. 
“And Mary’s face, all except the mark—the mark was 
on Anne’s face—Clancy told me. You ar eAnne?” 

She bowed her head in silence. Tears filled her 
glorious eyes. 

“And Mary—is upstairs,” he breathed. “And 
yet, when you speak, it’s impossible not to be¬ 
lieve-” 

She shook her head. 

“It’s my sister, Rosamond, up there,” she faltered. 
“My poor, misguided little sister that I—lost years 
ago—that I loved more than anything I had left in 
the world—until I saw you. ... I never heard 
of her—never saw her again until to-day. 

You never saw her, Donald. You never saw her 
until—was it yesterday ? . . . We always looked 

very much alike—except-” She pressed her 






286 


THE SINISTER MARK 


hand closer against her cheek. “It was no wonder, 

seeing her as you did, that you mistook her for-” 

“I can’t understand.” Donald gripped his head 
with both hands, gazing at her with strained, be¬ 
wildered eyes. “You are Anne?” 

“Yes,” she answered, sadly. “I am Anne Cur- 
wood. . . . Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, dear!” 

She stretched out her hands, pleadingly. “I had 
planned it all so differently. You can hardly for¬ 
give me now. But try to understand. There is no 
Mary Blake. There never has been. It was I— 
Anne. There is no one but Anne.” 

“No one but—Anne,” he repeated, incredulous. 

“I tried to tell you before—before I went away—• 
as soon as I knew that you—that you cared, Don. 
As soon as I was sure. ... I started to write it 
in the letter I left for you—and I hadn’t the courage. 

. . . ‘My sister Anne, with whom I live-’ I 

remember I wrote that far, and crossed it out. I was 
going to say—I should have said—‘My sister Anne, 
with whom I live, is a myth. There is no such person 
living. I have lived alone, through all these years, 

and played two parts-’” 

He gazed at her, now, with comprehension dawn¬ 
ing in his eyes. His very soul shuddered at the fear¬ 
ful disfigurement which seemed like a desecration of 
her wonderful face. His intense, passionate love of 
all that was beautiful and perfect wrought in him, 
for a moment, a feeling of horror. A fearful, almost 
physical, recoil. 







DONALD MORRIS UNDERSTANDS 287 

And if it was thus with him, he thought, wildly, 
what must it have been to her—sensitive, high- 
strung, with magnificent gifts—a handicap which, in 
her chosen profession, could never be overcome—• 
unless- 

In a blinding flash he saw the reason for her de¬ 
ception of all the world—a deception which, lastly, 
had involved himself. He understood, with sure, 
keen insight, what her temptation must have been— 
and, understanding, he forgave. 

The expression of his eyes altered, was changed, 
illuminated, with a love transcending all things. 
Again he stretched out his arms: 

“Mary,” he whispered. “Mary-” 

With a little cry of joy unspeakable she started 
toward him—and stopped. 

“No, no,” she said, softly. “Not yet. Not yet, 
my beloved. I have suffered—suffered, to come to 
you clean. I said I would come to you clean, or not 
at all. ” 

Then, to his amazement, she drew a handkerchief 
from her breast and turned away from him to a small 
mirror which hung against the wall. 

A moment—and she faced him. 

Radiant, glorified love was in her eyes—and on her 
perfect face there was no mark or blemish. 





CHAPTER XXIX 

Kate Rutherford Relieves Her Mind 

TT WAS your own fault, Don. Your own fault, 
^ boy,” Doctor Stevens remarked, with partly as¬ 
sumed annoyance. “If you’d waited at home until 
I ’phoned, you never would have seen Miss Blake 
with that dreadful thing on her face. It was part 
of the experiment I was trying upstairs. ” 

He looked across his private office at a stately 
figure ensconced in the largest chair in the room. 
“It was Mrs. Rutherford who suggested how it could 
be managed, and she made Miss Blake up with her 
own fair hands. And Mr. Clancy backed me up in 
style.” He glanced aside at Peter who was sitting 
near him. 

“But,” said Donald, looking down into the glowing 
face so near to his, as he and Mary (as he insisted on 
calling her) sat together upon a couch. “ But I can’t 
realize it all, somehow. The—mark, dear,” he 
clasped her hand tenderly, “was a birthmark, wasn’t 
it? I thought that it was practically impossi¬ 
ble-” 

“And I thought so, too, Donald,” she interrupted. 
“For the last few years I’ve hunted up every report 
—all the experiments of this kind that have been 

288 



KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 289 

tried, for I wanted—oh, I wanted so to be rid of the 
hideous, dreadful thing. I saw one of the best 
specialists here last fall. He said something might 
be done by skin-grafting, but that it would be a long 
and painful experiment. I was playing then, of 
course, and couldn’t give up the time. . . . And 

then, just after that, there was an article in a silly 
magazine called Beauty , which told of the wonder¬ 
ful discovery, made by a doctor, in a little place near 
Chicago named Cordenham. It was a new kind of 
ray—which destroyed the colouring matter in the 
skin. I subscribed for the magazine at once, but 
there were only two more notices and they weren’t 
very convincing. In the meantime I went to the 
library and looked for more authentic reports in all 
the current medical journals. I found the experi¬ 
ments of Doctor Witherspoon mentioned, but the 
articles seemed to indicate that nothing conclusive 
had been done at that time. . . . Oh, Donald, 

can you imagine with what anxious longing I watched 
for the new numbers of that magazine to appear?” 

“And when they did come out, Mr. Morris,” 
Peter interjected, “Miss Blake cut out some of the 
articles and saved them. That was how I traced 
her.” 

“You found them in her apartment?” asked Don¬ 
ald, quickly. “You didn’t tell me that.” 

“No,” answered Peter, promptly, “for the simple 
reason that I didn’t find the articles. It was like the 
old story of the fisherman who was about to take a 


THE SINISTER MARK 


290 

party out among some dangerous rocks. When 
asked if he knew where the submerged rocks were, 
he said, T don’t know where they be, but I know 
where they ain’t.’ Well, that was my case. I found 
the magazines that the articles had been cut from 
pretty early in the game, but I didn’t see any signi¬ 
ficance in that till I knew—well, most of the facts. 
Then I went back to the apartment and made a note 
of every magazine from which anything had been 
clipped, the date and page. After that, I went to 
the library—and found that the articles all pointed one 
way. Directly or indirectly, they pointed to Doctor 
Witherspoon and Cordenham.” 

“You’re all right, Clancy,” said Donald with 
sincerity. “You certainly are a wonder.” 

Peter looked a little sheepish. “It would have 
been more to the point if I’d made my discovery a 
little earlier,” he said. “Miss Blake was almost 
ready to come back to town when I found her.” 

“Yes, Donald,” said Mary, looking at him with 
concern in her beautiful eyes. “ Doctor Witherspoon 
was almost ready to let me go, at last. Oh, my dear, 
if I had known it would be so long I never would 
have done what I did—have left you in suspense all 
these weeks. I would have told you everything, and 
taken the risk. . . . But the very last thing I 

found—it was in the Planet , just a few days before 
I went away—an article which gave a full descrip¬ 
tion of a wonderful cure made by Doctor Wither¬ 
spoon. It took only three days, and was absolutely 


KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 291 

successful. . . . From previous accounts in the 

medical journals, I knew that the operation was con¬ 
sidered dangerous—but I pinned my faith to the 
last thing Td learned—and hoped. 

“I’d made up my mind to take the risk, anyway. 
I had my plans all laid, and that Saturday morning 
I drew enough money to see me through. . . . 

My only question was whether or not to tell you. 

. And then, that last night—that last night, 
dear, my courage failed utterly. When you spoke 
of ‘my sister Anne’ with such confidence in me in 
your dear voice—oh, Donald, every time you men¬ 
tioned her, I felt—I can’t tell you how beneath con¬ 
tempt I felt. . . . To deceive you! Oh, 

Donald-” 

“ Don’t—don’t think of it, dearest,” he said, gently. 
“I understand, I understand.” 

“Oh, you’re wonderful, wonderful,” she said, with 
tears in her eyes. “But it would all have been 
different if I had realized. Mine was a bad case, 
Donald; the position and size of the mark, and my 
nervous exhaustion, they all told against me, and 
after the very first treatment I collapsed utterly. I 
knew nothing for days and days. . . . They 

kept me under anaesthetics and the treatment went 
on. . . . When I came fully to myself, it was so 

near the end, I was so close to achieving my heart’s 
desire, that I made up my mind to wait—just a little 
while, dear—to regain my strength, and then come 
back and tell you—everything. . . . Oh, Don- 






292 THE SINISTER MARK 

aid,” she paused, and looked deep into his eyes, “I 
wonder if you can realize, quite, what the whole 
thing meant to me. I knew you loved me, but I also 
knew how you shrank from anything ugly, abnormal. 
I had good reason to know. . . . And the thing 

had been a nightmare to me all my life long; I could 
not bear it any longer. . . . And, if the oper¬ 

ation was not to be successful, I had made up my 
mind, Donald, that I would never, never see you 
again. . . . That Mary Blake should vanish. 

That there should be no one left but Anne, and that 
she would never be found, for—there would be noth¬ 
ing left in life for her, and she would have been glad 
to lay it down-” 

“Oh, Mary, Mary!” he cried, and unheeding the 
others in the room, he threw his arms about her and 
held her fast. “It wouldn’t have mattered if the 
experiment had failed, dear. I love you, you —you 
must have seen, just now, out there on the stairs— 
you must have realized that it would have made no 
difference-” 

“Oh, yes, Donald, yes,” she sobbed. “I saw—I 
saw it all, and I can’t help being a little glad to know 
that not even that hideous disfigurement could make 
a difference. But I never would have caused you 
that pain, not even for my poor sister’s sake, if I’d 
had any idea-” 

“And that’s what made me so angry with you, 
Don,” said Doctor Stevens, striving to break the 
emotional tension of the scene. “As I said before, if 






KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 293 

you’d only waited as I told you, you’d have been 
saved a lot. You see, Don,” he explained, “I have 
a very strong professional interest in the case up¬ 
stairs, and there was just one chance in a million of 
helping Miss Rosamond Curwood to regain her mem¬ 
ory, and the Lord put it into my hand. I do think, 
now, it was that good old chap, O’Malley, who first 
made the suggestion. It seems he had an experience 
once with a similar case, where the patient was con¬ 
fronted with someone well—intimately—known in 
the past.” 

“And this is how it happened just as it did, Mr. 
Morris,” Peter broke in, eagerly. “I’d wired O’Mal¬ 
ley and Mrs. Rutherford, from Cordenham, to meet 
us at the Penn. Station. Miss Blake didn’t want me 
to telegraph you. She was afraid of the shock, and 
it would have been impossible to explain—well, 
everything—you see, in a telegram. . . . We got 

in about noon, and O’Malley told us of the dis¬ 
covery you’d made. We compared notes, and Miss 
Blake was certain that the person you’d found must 
be her twin sister, Rosamond, who’d disappeared 
years ago. Miss Blake was naturally all broken up 
over the whole thing, and O’Malley had a hunch that 
if the two sisters were suddenly brought together, it 
might bring Rosamond to herself. He called up 
Doctor Stevens on his own, while we were going over 
to Mrs. Rutherford’s hotel, where we were going to 
ask you to come; and, by the time we’d seen to Miss 
Blake’s luggage and arrived at the hotel, Doctor 



THE SINISTER MARK 


294 

Stevens was there, waiting for us. He was keen on 
making the experiment, and was neither to hold nor 
to bind,” he glanced, quizzically, at the doctor, 
“ until he’d tried it out. Both Miss Blake and I 
wanted to get you first, but he said he wasn’t at all 
satisfied with Miss Curwood’s condition, and that 
the thing should be tried at once if it was to be any 
good. Miss Blake became alarmed at that, and 
agreed. But then we struck a snag; Miss Rosamond 
would never know her sister without the—the mark, 
which had been successfully removed. Then Mrs. 
Rutherford came to the front. She said, ‘Why not 
paint it on again?’ And that she did to perfection, 
I will say-” 

“So I telephoned to keep you out of the way, 
Don,” added Doctor Stevens, “and you upset all our 
plans.” 

“But you haven’t told me yet whether you were 
successful,” said Donald, who, with Mary’s hand held 
close in his, had followed the conversation intently. 
“Were they right, Mary? And is your sister-’* 

She shook her head, sadly. 

“She knew me, Donald. She recognized me—but 
she remembers nothing, nothing at all, that has hap¬ 
pened since we were little children together. Per¬ 
haps—oh, perhaps, Donald, it is just as well. She 
has no painful memories, and her life must have 
been—hard, I’m afraid. Doctor Stevens says-” 

“We can hope. We can always hope,” said the 
doctor, comfortingly; but by the look in his eyes. 








KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 295 

Donald Morris knew that there was little hope, in 
this world, for Rosamond Curwood. 

“We’ll take care of her, Mary,” Donald said, 
gently. “We’ll take care of her together, dear.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then Mrs. 
Rutherford spoke, for almost the first time. 

“Look here, Don,” she said, in her deep, com¬ 
manding voice. “I don’t want you to blame Anne 
for having played a part to the world.” 

“I don’t, Aunt Kate,” he said, looking not at her, 
but at Mary. “I understand-” 

“But that’s just it,” interrupted the old lady, 
quickly. “You understand a part. That’s all. 
I know you’ve a lively imagination, and I will say, 
Don, that you’re—that you’re a pretty satisfactory 
person—take it all in all. . . . But I want you 

to understand that it was I who put Anne up to the 
whole thing, and I guess I’ll need a few prayers if my 
poor old soul is ever to get out of Purgatory.” 

“Don’t talk that way, Aunt Kate,” said Donald, 
smiling at her perturbed face. 

“All right, Don,” she agreed, “but I want you to 
know, just the same, how the whole thing came about. 
This clever young countryman of mine,” with an 
appreciative glance at Peter, “figured out the whole 
affair. His knowledge of it came to me like a bolt 
from the blue. I’d never seen him, you know, till 
you introduced him to me in Fennimore Park, and 
you can, perhaps, imagine my surprise when he told 
me who he was, and what he was doing. I was 






296 THE SINISTER MARK 

startled nearly out of my wits, and when, without 
more ado, he plunged into the very middle of the 
situation, and announced, in a whisper that would 
have done credit to Henry Irving: ‘Mrs. Rutherford, 
there has never been, in that apartment in New York, 
but one person—and her name is Anne Curwood,’ I 
was simply taken completely off my feet.” 

She glanced about to note the effect of these lines, 
dramatically uttered, then she went on: 

“I told him, after that, what I’m going to tell you 
all now—you who know some of the facts. 

It was all my fault. ... I found Anne slaving 
her youth away in menial tasks—and I found out 
that she was the daughter of my old friend, Winthrop 
Curwood.” 

“Winthrop Curwood of the old Athenaeum Com¬ 
pany?” asked Donald, with keen interest. “Why, 
I’ve heard my mother speak of him often. She knew 
his people in England.” 

“Yes, Don. That’s the man. But please don’t 
interrupt. I want to get the whole thing off my 
mind. My conscience has been worrying me so, in 
the last few days, that I must clear it, and take all the 
blame. . . . This is how it was—I discovered, 

almost at once, that Anne had inherited her father’s 
wonderful gifts, and that he had given her a per¬ 
fectly marvellous training. . . . He had become 

blind, stone blind, poor, poor Win—and teaching her 
had been his one pleasure and recreation. He’d 
done wonders for her, and probably had great hopes 



KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 297 

for her future. He never knew—Anne told me all 
this. With tears in her eyes, she said that she could 
never bring herself to tell him that there would be no 
possible chance for her on the stage. . . . When 

she told me that—I had a great idea. I took her up 
to my room, and I made her up with my own hands. 
Nobody was ever more skilful at that than Kate 
Rohan.” There was pride in the deep old voice. 
“I made her look at herself in the glass. You could 
see the birthmark in the bright daylight a little, not 
very much. But when I drew the blinds and turned 
on the electric lights, there wasn’t a trace—not a 
trace. 

“Then I thought it all out. . . . She couldn’t 

be seen in the daytime, in a bright light, without the 
defect being discovered. And if it was once known, 
it would be talked about, and I could see that Anne 
would never be able to stand the kind of notoriety it 
would bring her. She was too terribly sensitive 
about it. ... I was at my wits’ end for quite 
a while, and then—suddenly—I saw a way 
out. 

“I was determined that her wonderful gifts should 
not be lost to the world, and I got Arthur Quinn to 
come up to Fennimore Park. I made Anne act for 
him, after I’d made her up as she ought to look on 
the stage. He was crazy—mad about her, and when 
I saw how he felt, I told him everything, including 
my plan—which was that she should be two persons 
instead of one. ... I even picked out a name 


THE SINISTER MARK 


298 

for her—Mary, for my own mother, and Blake, which 
was part of her mother’s name—Blakeslie. . . . 

So—as Mary Blake she was to astonish and delight 
the world; and as Anne Blake she was to pursue her 
daily round, without any subterfuge other than the 
change of name, to agree with that of her ‘sister.’ 
And, too, I suggested that she play the part, while she 
was about it—play Mary with spirit and pride, stand¬ 
ing tall and straight, as she always did when she was 
taken out of herself—and let Anne be as she was: 
plainly dressed, timid, quiet, retiring; stooping a' 
little as she walked or stood. . . . To me, it 

was an added touch to the dramatic possibilities of 
the situation, but Anne looked at the whole thing 
with distaste and it took some time to persuade her 
—but, at last, she yielded. 

“I arranged everything for her with Arthur Quinn, 
contracts and all. We even managed to have her 
photographed so that the photographer didn’t sus¬ 
pect. That was rather ticklish business, for the 
camera sometimes sees what the eye doesn’t. But 
we took care of the lighting, and the results were per¬ 
fectly satisfactory. 

“In the meantime, I found the apartment in 
Waverly Place, and we furnished it together.” 

“And had special lighting installed,” put in Peter, 
eagerly. 

“Ah, you noticed that, did you, Mr. Clancy?” 
The old, young eyes flashed him a quick look. “Yes. 
You see, she had to make up for ‘Mary Blake’ at 



KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 299 

home, and we were taking no chances with the gas, 
which was already there. Anne was staying at my 
hotel, as my companion, so all that was easily ac¬ 
complished. . . . Then, when she began making 

money, we had to get banking accommodations for 
her. Arthur Quinn managed that. He took her to 
the Scoville Bank, where he had an account, and in¬ 
troduced her.” 

“Twice?” asked Peter, quickly. 

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Rutherford, giving him a keen 
glance. “He waited for a cloudy day, when there 
would be artificial light in the bank, and then he 
took ‘Mary Blake,’ and helped her open an ac¬ 
count. That was just in case of emergency. We’d 
planned that Anne should be the one who would 
make deposits, as a general thing, and draw out 
money.” 

“So you made the account subject, under all 
conditions, to the order of either of the sisters,” 
said Peter, eagerly. “I found that out almost 
the first thing; and it did give me a fearful jolt, 
let me tell you.” He did not think it necessary 
to explain why, and went on at once—“I saw 
the signature card at that time, and there was 
something about the appearance of the two names 
which struck me as being peculiar. Miss Mary’s 
writing was large and—fluent—sort of—while Miss 
Anne’s was small, and slanted the wrong way. At the 

first glance they didn’t look a bit alike, but- Well, 

I didn’t think so much about it at the time, but later 





THE SINISTER MARK 


300 

I happened to see a letter written by Anne Curwood 
to an old friend of hers named Walter Lord, up in 
Hobart Falls. I—I made an opportunity to examine 
it carefully, and I found that, while it was signed 
‘Anne/ the writing was, unmistakably, Mary’s. 
. . . Then I began to sit up and take no¬ 
tice. . . . 

“Here were twin sisters, who, in childhood—I had 
seen photographs of both—looked almost exactly 
alike—save for one thing. ... I learned, from 
this Walter Lord, that both children had exceptional 
dramatic talent; but also, to my surprise, that Anne 
was much the cleverer of the two. ... I knew 
that Rosamond had disappeared when the girls were 
about eighteen years old, and had never been heard 
of since, but that Anne had gone away, later, with a 
Mrs. Rutherford. That’s how I first got hold of 
your name, Mrs. Rutherford.’’ 

All were following Peter’s recital with breathless 
interest. Kate Rutherford nodded at the mention 
of her name, and Peter continued: 

“And, on top of all this, I found that letter to 
Walter Lord, and knew—yes, I was absolutely cer¬ 
tain, that the two signatures at the bank had been 
made by the same hand. . . . Well, I thought 

to myself, what in the world does that mean? 

“Then I went carefully over the facts we’d turned 
up in New York. . . . Mary Blake was a 

brilliant, successful actress, but she knew no one, 
personally, so far as we could find out, except Mr. 



KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 


301 

Morris and, to quote the Italian janitor, ‘a fine, 
grand lady’ who sometimes came to the apartment. 
There was, too, her present manager, Frederick 
Jones. But he didn’t appear to know her, except 
professionally. . . . From him I found out that 

she associated with none of the members of the com¬ 
pany—and something else, which came back to me 
later—the curious fact that she always rehearsed in 
costume—with a full make-up. . . . She went 

out only in the daytime when it was absolutely 
necessary, was always heavily veiled, and always took 
a cab. 

“ But, on the other hand, Anne was well known to 
the janitor, to various tradesmen in the neighbour¬ 
hood, and to the people at the bank. They all 
described her to me, and the descriptions were 
practically identical. . . . 

“I remember that no one had ever spoken of the 
two sisters as if they had been seen at the same time. 

. . . That only one of them, Anne, had left the 

least trace when (as we all thought at the time) both 
of them disappeared. . . . That there were 

many of Mary’s clothes left in the apartment and 
practically none of Anne’s. . . . 

“And always, and everywhere, I heard of Anne’s 
fearful handicap. ... I thought of it this way 
and that. . . . And there was only one theory 

that would exactly fit all the facts. It seemed ab¬ 
surd to me when it first flashed into my mind—and 
that was at the time when I realized that only one 



THE SINISTER MARK 


302 

person had signed at the bank. You will remember, 
Mr. Morris, that I had seen part of a letter to you 
signed ‘Mary’, but the writing was identical with that 
of Walter Lord’s letter from ‘Anne’—and then it 
came back to me that I had noticed a remarkable 
similarity in the two signatures at the bank, and I 
was sure —sure!” 

“It seemed impossible, but I figured it all out that 
day, on my way from Hobart Falls to Fennimore 
Park. . . . And when I heard Mrs. Rutherford’s 

voice, downstairs, there at your sister’s house, Mr. 
Morris, you remember—and realized that it was the 
same voice that had called Anne Blake on the morn¬ 
ing of our discovery in Waverly Place—and that the 
name was the same as that of the lady who had taken 
Anne Curwood away from Fennimore Park—well, 
you can imagine my feelings!” 

“And it was only on guess-work, young man, that 
you made me disclose a secret I’d kept for years!” 
said Kate Rutherford, severely. “If I’d known 
that-” 

“No you wouldn’t, Mrs. Rutherford,” Peter inter¬ 
posed, eagerly. “You wouldn’t have kept it to 
yourself. You know you were too much alarmed by 
Mr. Morris’s appearance to keep the matter secret 
any longer.” 

“And, after all, Anne,” said Kate Rutherford, 
holding out her hands in a gesture almost of supplica¬ 
tion, “it was my secret, in a way. At least I was 
responsible. It was my fault altogether. You 




KATE RELIEVES HER MIND 303 

would never have gone into it at all but for me. I 

had such a hard time persuading you-” 

“And I never would have been persuaded, Don¬ 
ald,” a soft voice interrupted. “I think I would 
never have been persuaded but for one thing, which 
Mrs. Rutherford never knew.” For a moment Mary 
Blake looked into the eyes of her lover. Then she 
went on: “You don’t remember, dear, I know. It 

was long, long ago, that first time I saw you-” 

“At my sister’s house in Gramercy Park,” said 
Donald. 

“No, dear. Long before that. You were riding 
through Hobart Falls with someone—a lady—on 
horseback. . . . You stopped at old Walter 

Lord’s, you and she, to have him take your pictures. 
. . . I remember it well.” Her voice was very 

quiet, full of restrained emotion. “The sunlight 
on the trees, and on your face. ... I was 
there, on the steps, and you saw me—I saw the quick 
shiver of disgust when you caught sight of my poor 
face. You closed your eyes for a second—and I 
went quickly away. . . . You would not re¬ 
member, but it seared deep into my soul-” 

Peter Clancy rose abruptly, and quietly passing 
over to the window, stood with his back turned to the 
room. Doctor Stevens unobtrusively joined him, 
and the two men stood looking out with unseeing 
eyes. Mrs. Rutherford sat very still. Her great, 
dark, youthful eyes were full of tears. The two fine 
young creatures at the other end of the room were 





THE SINISTER MARK 


304 

oblivious of all save each other. Anne Curwood was 
still speaking: 

“Afterward, Donald, when I was employed by 
your sister, in Fennimore Park, I saw you often, but 
I kept out of sight. I watched you, from behind the 
curtain at the door, working in your studio there. 
You were rapt, absorbed. I had little fear that you 
would ever think of the poor girl who came in to do 
cleaning. . . . But every line of your face grew 

familiar to me in those days; in those brief moments 
that I could snatch from my work—I learned to read 
your face—I knew when your work was going well, 
and rejoiced with you—I saw the light in your eyes— 
your smile- It was the thought of making some¬ 

thing of myself, of being someone—someone you 
would not shudder to look at, that induced me-” 

He turned, and caught her in his arms. 

“Mary,” he whispered upon her lips. “Mary!” 


THE END 






















































































































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